Your Light in the Dark
by Mirrordance
Summary: In a dark forest, dark secrets have plenty of hiding places. While in Mirkwood on a mission to investigate the growing evil of Dol Guldur, Glorfindel works with the son of Elvenking Thranduil. But all is not well with the war-hardened soldier, prince Legolas... Warning: Slash / Dark Themes
1. Beneath Our Eaves

**Hello gang!**

Life swallowed me whole this past month and spat me out, lol. Thanks to everyone who has been reading and especially reviewing my work. I might not get to reply immediately, but every single one is valued. Your encouragements are a salve to the occasional madness of RL :) Another source of solace comes in writing, but even that has its pitfalls. Ever tried writing three things at the same time, and you end up with 75 or so pages each but nothing is finished? So that is me at the moment hahaha. I do not even know if I should be posting this now, but I do miss posting, I miss the creative connections of the LOTR fandom community, and maybe it can jar me into better productivity, so here I am :) A bit nervous to be honest - I don't do slow burn or slash often (or well, lol), but let's give this a shot and see how it goes. I hope you enjoy the reading as much as I do the writing and as always - I would be grateful for any C&Cs you would be kind enough to share :) Without further ado:

* * *

**"Your Light in the Dark"**

_In a dark forest, dark secrets have plenty of hiding places. While in Mirkwood on a mission to investigate the growing evil of Dol Guldur, Glorfindel works with the son of the Elvenking Thranduil. But all is not well with the war-hardened soldier, prince Legolas. Warning: Slash / Violence / Dark Themes_

* * *

**# # #**  
**1: Beneath Our Eaves**

_Mirkwood, T.A. 2851_  
**# # #**

_Well this is unexpected._

Glorfindel had conceived of plenty potential deaths. After all, when one has gone through such a thing once, one cannot help but be a bit circumspect about it all.

_Not this though_, he thought.

He'd previously gone to the Halls of Mandos in unimaginable violence and hellfire. There was no time to feel too much pain, much less to think. Now, there was enough time for both.

_I did not expect this._

It was a useless thought, one amongst innumerable that flitted across the ancient elven lord's fleeting consciousness as he laid on the ground on his back, and his lifeblood seeped from his body.

Just as useless – said blood. Even in such copious amounts it did nothing, _nothing!_ to soften the ground beneath him, so stubbornly hard and dry. Winter had turned the earth to unforgiving rock, but from how it looked and felt, Glorfindel suspected nothing had grown on it for a long time.

His blood couldn't even water this wretched land.

The red liquid stayed on the surface with nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait to become ice. The ground was so hard, he thought, that he couldn't even be buried here were he to expire. He would have to be burnt, or brought elsewhere.

_But would they do that for a stranger's corpse?_ he asked himself, for that was what he was in this accursed land.

He was a stranger, maybe even an unwelcome interloper in what was once the Greenwood. The people here wouldn't know him and even if they did, why would they bother? They were more likely to leave him to the elements, he decided, with a surprisingly sanguine lack of regret, even if his last earthly form had been borne by an eagle, widely mourned (_so they say_) and buried in honor in a place that promptly grew golden flowers.

_Good times_, he thought, helplessly wryly. Because for all the luck and curse of it, the gods have seen it fit to bless Glorfindel with a decent sense of humor.

_Maybe I will be left to the elements_, he thought.

In Mirkwood, it was dark and the foliage thick. The forest was wide and wild, full of hungry things the bedeviled territory could no longer satisfactorily feed. Something hungry – a wolf, a spider, an orc - would seek flesh and blood and find him.

_Unless I freeze first_, he determined, a possibility suddenly promising.

_It would kill the smell and harden the flesh_, he reflected._ Maybe that would be deterrent enough. What animal would want to gnaw on a rock?_ He had a chance of being left alone then, at least until the warmer climes, and maybe by then those who had sent him on this foolish undertaking would come and find him.

It's been worse than this.

It was literally and figuratively cold comfort, because he had burnt once, hadn't he? Gripped by a Balrog by the hair – his one vanity - he fell to an abyss, as if the gods wanted to ensure he would die, one way or another. For all the lives of him, he couldn't remember if he died first from burning or from hitting the ground.

Ever since he was brought to life again and returned to Arda for work against an increasingly strengthening, dark danger, he could not escape the musings about what his next death would be like. And if he did die again, would he be gifted / cursed with life anew again afterwards? To continue his work, and maybe to die again, and maybe to live again...?

Glorfindel looked up at the thick, impenetrable canopy of leaves over his head. He couldn't even see the heavens above. It was eternal night here.

He clasped inadequately over the gaping wound on his stomach, the worst of the hurts that peppered his broken body. Around him were the Noldorin soldiers he had traveled from Imladris with, in varying degrees of similarity to his own state. No one dead yet, though; he could feel them all, somehow holding on.

He was the last one standing among them, not that it meant much; he fought until rescue came in the form of brown and green-clad elven soldiers, whom he somehow did not even sense coming.

Suddenly there were these Silvans just falling from the sky –

The image was too fanciful.

They'd come down from the trees, of course, sliding from branches, vines and spider strings but as graceful as birds of prey descending with hungry purpose. Glorfindel promptly lost his legs then, and he hit the ground with a dull thud.

He barely had it in him to put his hands over the worst of his wounds in an attempt to staunch blood. It was tempting not to try, truth be told. But that was a choice he did not want to account for before the gods when he met them again. He would want to say he tried everything.

The sounds of fighting around him soon diminished, and he could tell it was a triumph for the elves. But he wasn't sure it was a victory he would see to the end. Strength was rapidly leaving his cold-numbed, bloodless, freezing fingers. His eyelids became heavier while his breathing became faster and shallower. His heart felt strange, fluttery and feathery in his chest. His grip loosened, and his hands began to slide from his stomach to his sides –

Two hands - warm, steady, powerful hands – settled over his, insistently. They tightened his fading grip.

Surprised, Glorfindel jolted and settled his weary gaze upon his savior.

It was an inexplicably familiar face, and he felt he'd seen some semblance of the pale-gold-haloed countenance several times before. The proud brow, the square jaws, the long, deep-set blue eyes of sharp, almost feline intellect and purpose...

This elf belonged in the line of Oropher, Glorfindel realized, but in a permutation that had a leaner form over smaller bones and finer features. It wasn't Thranduil Oropherion, whom Glorfindel had met in another age.

This was almost certainly Thranduil's son.

Glorfindel's fading _fea_ bucked and unintentionally reached for the younger elf's. It was a desperate grasp at something even vaguely familiar and beautiful in a blighted land where he was a dying stranger. It was an attempt to grasp at the slippery strings of life.

The younger elf's soul, a reserved one especially skittish at the invasion of a stranger, realized Glorfindel's need and hesitantly reached back. But once it had a hold of Glorfindel, it was firm and uncompromising.

"You will stay with me, my lord Glorfindel," he said with urgency, but also with an earnest certainty.

Glorfindel was surprised that the other elf knew him, but perhaps that was a mystery for another day – if he should live to see one. In the meantime, he eased into the other one's presence and shared light, such as it was. For the other's _fea_ was...

Interesting.

Glorfindel had lived and died and lived for countless years before that. His time with the gods and other powers have given him experience in sensing souls in every way, and at the plane where they connected, they can be seen, heard, smelled, tasted and touched. Each one was unique in nuance, degree, gradient, texture, temperature, intensity. Each one was an intriguing blip in a wide, eternal spectrum.

But some souls were more intriguing than others, and the Elvenking Thranduil's son was practically _exotic_.

He smelled like wet spring leaves on thorny branches that have already kissed blood. His song was high hopeful notes wind soaring, but the timbre was deep and the edges dulled, softened, earth-tied. He had the burning light of youthful energy and purpose, but unlike the sweetness of most young elves Glorfindel had ever met, his few years were seasoned by weight and depth, bitterness and salt. And whether by life's scarring or his own deliberate design, his light was veiled. It was golden brilliance tarnished, like a weather-worn, overused sacred chalice.

He was strange and intoxicating, and Glorfindel drank him in. he even found strength enough to open his mouth and say, in recognition –

"Thranduilio-"

Glorfindel's savior leaned in close and put a blood-slick hand gently over his mouth.

"That is a death sentence here, my lord," he said. "And at any rate, I will need you to save your breath."

Glofindel nodded, but he saw something he simply had to remark upon: there was an arrow protruding from Thranduilion's back. He swallowed and gathered strength again to speak.

"Arrow," he managed in a rasp.

"I am aware," came the nonchalant reply. The Woodland Prince was preoccupied with other things.

His hand returned to Glorfindel's belly and for the love of the gods he pushed down, and it hurt like fire raging outward from his core and across his battered, oversensitive nerves. He bucked and cried out, and his mind whited to nothingness.

**# # #**

The relief or unconsciousness lasted, miserably, only for a moment.

When Glorfindel returned to himself, he was still on the ground and the Woodland Prince's hands were still keeping his blood and his guts in his body. But Thranduilion was no longer alone. He was flanked by Woodland soldiers listening to his commands, save for one who was hovering restlessly behind him and pleading his case in between Thranduilion's clipped instructions.

"Secure the perimeter – "

"Damn it all, Legolas, what is that on your back?!" exclaimed the soldier, who was pointedly ignored.

"Prepare litters only for those who cannot survive horseback. Triage who goes first but no one can linger here- "

"Let someone else look after him, you're hurt!"

"Secure a salvageable uruk for interrogation, but not at risk to yourselves. Expedite the passing of all the rest – "

"Seriously, Legolas. Stand down now and take care of that arrow!"

The Prince – "Legolas," Glorfindel deduced – let out an impatient, long-suffering sigh. He finally addressed his agitated minder. "A flesh wound, Silon. Nothing more."

The soldier Silon would not be appeased. "It could be poisoned. It is, at the very least, as filthy as the orc that held it."

"Well if I take my hands off of him he will be dead," Legolas snapped. "Where is that healer?"

"Got the wind knocked out of him, _hir-nin_," someone else reported, "But he's coming around."

"See?" Silon pointed out, "It won't be long now. You need to properly get that thing off of you, Legolas."

"If it bothers you so much then pull at it, why don't you?"

Glorfindel quickly realized this Legolas had not meant it in barbed jest. The soldier Silon – roan-haired and head bloodied himself – knelt beside his prince. He tore at the cloths around the injury and contemplated it briefly. It was protruding at the flesh of Legolas' upper back near his left arm, and Silon examined it while Legolas was pressing at the injury to Glorfindel's stomach.

It was tragically comical, for the three of them were like a nesting doll of hurts.

Another soldier, the biggest elf Glorfindel had ever set eyes on, knelt by Legolas too and shoved a water skin roughly in the direction of the prince's lips. It smelled like particularly potent wine, Glorfindel could scent it even in his dimming awareness.

The prince partook of the drink halfheartedly, before jerking his head away. The rest of the contents were then tossed over the site of his arrow injury and over a clean, gleaming knife. The blade was then used to widen the entry wound on Legolas' back. The head and shaft were pulled out efficiently, and intact.  
Legolas simply tensed and hissed but Glorfindel, his spirit wound around the other's fea, felt the prince's psyche jolt and his axis shift. And from how closely Legolas hovered over him, Glorfindel could see his face sheen in a fine sweat.

Glorfindel couldn't help it. Maybe by virtue of some time spent with the Weeper, he felt sorry for this stoic young creature. Or maybe by virtue of some time spent with Elrond and the healing halls of his Rivendell sanctuary, he wanted to offer comfort.

Either way, at unthinking detriment to himself, Glorfindel found reserves he did not know he had and shared what little warmth and light he'd kept, flooding into the connection between his soul and that of Legolas.

Thranduilion's pale lips parted in wonder, before he shook his head and shook free of Glorfindel's connection.

"None of that now," Legolas snapped, displeased, impervious, and completely without gratitude. "You need it more than I do."

His face softened though, at the sight of a new arrival from somewhere behind Glorfindel. By the relief in Legolas' glacial eyes, Glorfindel could tell the healer had finally come.

"You are sufficiently recovered, Naston?" Legolas asked.

"Aye,_ hir-nin_."

"He will need you at your best."

"He shall have it, Captain," the healer promised. But he swallowed at the sight of Glorfindel's injury. Nevertheless, he knelt beside Legolas and prepared his wares. In the meantime, another one of the wood-elves called for their prince's urgent attention.

"Captain!" he called out, "There's something you must see."

"Naston?" Legolas prompted the healer, who told his prince he was ready to take over.

"Well then it seems you are in capable hands, my lord," Legolas announced to Glorfindel. He lifted his hands from the ancient lord's belly, and the healer quickly took over and pressed –

The pain was indescribable. Glorfindel spiraled away...

**# # #**

... he did not go far.

_Damn it all!_

When Glorfindel regained awareness, he was still in that benighted battle site. At least this time he was on a litter and swaddled in blankets, and he'd been given what felt like appropriate field treatment even if the packed wound felt overfull and alien, beneath bandages set around his middle so tight he could hardly breathe. But what was one more discomfort amongst a litany; blood loss and pain made him cold and lightheaded on top of everything, and the dimming world swayed sickeningly.

"Do you know who this is, Naston?" he heard that now familiar voice – Legolas' - ask.

"Hard not to know him, _hir-nin_."

"He is not permitted to die beneath our eaves, do you understand?"

"He was almost disemboweled, my lord," replied the healer nervously. "We need to contend not only with the severity of the injury itself and the damages placed upon his functions, but secondary effects as well – extreme blood loss and infection from the contents of his innards contaminating all the rest of him. Let us just say – on every imaginable level, he does not have the best chances of survival."

"But the Elvenking will not countenance the embarrassment of losing the precious, twice-born Balrog Slayer on our watch here," Legolas said.

_Was that a joke?_ Glorfindel suspected so, but he did not know the prince enough to tell, for the delivery had been perfectly deadpan.

"The gods might weep," added one of the soldiers, and _by the Vala_, these woodland elves really were joking.

"The Noldor will certainly weep," snickered another.

"Why, even the Captain might weep," someone suggested wryly.

"_Hir-nin_ never weeps," laughed another. "He blinks though – sometimes!"

"Oh we cannot have that, can we?" agreed the healer Naston, mock-gravely.

Their prince received the jests with quiet confidence and a straight face, but there was a gleam in his eye.

"Is everything ready?" he asked the field healer. "Lord Glorfindel goes to the King's Halls now, and kindly ensure he is accommodated in the royal suites at the healing ward, in deference to his noble standing."

"You are hurting too, _hir-nin_," Naston pointed out. "It would be wise to leave with us."

"You know I am not done here and he cannot wait," replied the other. "Move out."

Glorfindel's litter was lifted gently, but even the most minute of movements was agony. Oblivion descended as he was raised, and the world stopped beneath his closed eyes when he was moved.

**# # #**

Every waking moment, however brief, was agony.

Glorfindel would wake to an assault of snatches of light and sound and misery, only for his beleaguered mind and body to retreat away from said misery. Every eye blink was eons away from the one that came before it and the one after, each a curtain show unveiling different places and unknown faces.

"He looks dead," he'd woken up to once or twice, with fingers prying at his eyes and scrambling at the pulse on his neck.

He'd woken to rustling leaves overhead, and the clatter of horse hooves beneath his body as he was moved through the uneven terrain of the forest. He woke to a sudden stop, and the too-loud declaration of the arrivals upon the gates of the Elvenking's stronghold, demanding to immediately be let in. He slipped away at the jolt of sudden movement forward when they were allowed inside.

He woke to another stop, and lingered halfheartedly when he was lifted from his horse-drawn litter and rushed by jarring footfalls to the interiors of Thranduil's labyrinthine halls.

Rays of warm firelight flew by his drifting gaze, woven through the textured surfaces of the petrified wood and stone walls and ceilings. He felt sick to his stomach, unable to focus, and a thick, warm liquid bubbled up from his mouth, and the horror of choking on it, of being unable to breathe and being too weak to rise or turn and rid himself of it, was second only to the searing pain on his belly.

When will it end, he wondered, and the answer came when a barrage of urgently chattering healers came into view. Someone opened at his bandages and –

**# # #**

Sudden silence.

Glorfindel woke alone to a dimly lit room with a miscellany of healing effects ordered neatly on one side. It had a high vaulted ceiling and was wide, and though there was another bed across his own, he was the suite's only occupant.

There was a curtained and guarded exit, and he could hear a bustle of activity from beyond. From the smells of herbs and cleaning aids, he could tell he was in a healing hall, albeit in an area set apart. By the trappings of this particular space, he deduced he was occupying a royal bed.

He was being treated as nobly as Thranduilion had commanded, he remembered now.

He shifted uncomfortably. The bandages itched and were too tight, and he could tell he was drugged, heavily, by the absence of sharp pain. But his belly felt stuffed and sickeningly overfull, and he was nauseatingly ill. He swallowed thickly, closed his eyes and remained still, and dreamed of heavenly places away from mortal weaknesses.

**# # #**

Glorfindel jolted awake at the sound of new arrivals, and by warrior's instinct - reacquired now that he was a few steps farther from death than before - he feigned sleep to orient himself before letting others know he was awake. He opened his eyes only to slits.

It was the Woodland Prince, bedraggled, dragged along by that singularly large Silvan soldier of his. The Silvan was so massive that with Legolas' arm slung over his shoulders, the tall prince's feet still barely brushed the ground. It wad just as well too, for Legolas kept scrambling for some purchase as they walked but his knees kept knocking and his legs were liquid - uncoordinated, strength-less limbs that could not hold weight or follow direction.

The prince was deposited gray-faced and breathless on the bed across from Glorfindel's, and he belatedly recalled Legolas had taken an arrow suspected of poison - hours? days? a lifetime ago?

As Legolas' companions and healers divested him of his armor and clothes and set them aside, he spoke with a rasping voice at them. "And how does the Lord Glorfindel fare, Renior?"

The giant Silvan glanced in Glorfindel's direction and replied, "He looks better than you."

"No one looks better th-," Legolas started with a sick grin, before he threw off his handlers and scrambled to lean over the side of the bed, where he promptly urged out the contents of his stomach to the ground.

"He always misses my feet," Renior boasted.

Glorfindel, reminded if his own delicate stomach and nausea, winced in sympathy and closed his eyes, fighting against the same impulse.

**# # #**

Glorfidel didn't think he would fall asleep, but when he woke next he realized that was what had happened.

He oriented himself and realized it felt like the deep, late night. It was hard to tell time indoors here, but there was a hushed quiet, and muted activities about the healing halls.

He had woken to the sound of a low, miserable moan followed by painful-sounding retching, all courtesy of only other elf in the royal suite: Legolas, the Woodland Prince.

Glorfindel opened his eyes and found the younger elf sitting up but slumped heavily to one side of his bed, with the arm near his injury immobilized in a sling strapped to his chest while his free hand held a sick bowl near his chin.

Legolas retched and burped and gulped in air and started again, then again, with each miserable spell of sickness broken by careful swallows and closed eyes as he fought for control. If he knew he was being watched, he gave no appearance of awareness or care for it.

Glorfindel ached to help him or at least, call out for it. He blinked himself to greater awareness and shifted to move. It was still surprisingly painful, more than what he expected. He bit back a soft, hoarse cry, and Legolas turned to look at him then, squarely eye to eye, betraying no sign that he had been caught unawares. Their weary, bleary gazes met, equally miserable.

Glorfindel was not certain, but he also sensed in the other elf, a dark, delirious humor about it all.

Legolas smothered it and swallowed thickly. "Do you need me to call-," he swallowed again, "let me call someone for you, my lord."

Glorfindel grit his teeth and shook his head. "No," he growled. "You."

"No-" Legolas managed to spit out, before he became ill again.

All that came of it were strings of saliva and bile, but he curled miserably over his apparently merciless stomach. When his eyes met Glorfindel's again though, they were pained but present, and there was a sober clarity to him beyond the cloud of pain and misery.

"Please do not bother yourself," Legolas said softly. " It will pass. It always passes."

Glorfindel nodded and looked away, giving the other elf what little privacy they had in the large, royal space that was suddenly rendered too intimate by their vulnerabilities.

The ancient warrior pondered the unfortunate implications of those quiet words though - _It always passes_.

That this pain was familiar and frequent and survived many times before.

**TO BE CONTINUED**...


	2. Lofty Ambitions

**hello gang!**

Thank you so much to all who are reading, and extra hugs to reviewers. I was going to post this next week lol, but my review count got stuck at 13 and I have unreasonable discomfort with that number hahaha, so help a gal out and get me out of it, please? I am offering a new chapter as incentive ;) c&c's are treasured so please give them if you can. I may not be able to respond promptly but your reviews and PMs are invaluable. If you are unable, all is good - I just hope everyone enjoys the reading :)

Anyway, without further ado:

* * *

2: Lofty Ambitions

_Mirkwood, T.A. 2851_

* * *

Glorfindel woke again to his royal roommate in dramatically better health, though he himself felt worse - both overwarm and chilled at the same time. His body shook, aggravating his wounds.

Legolas was sitting up in bed, one arm still in a sling and looking so gaunt Glorfindel could have bet he'd thrown up a fifth of his weight. But his eyes and his voice were clear as he made his report to –

_Thranduil..._

The Elvenking looked away from his son and settled his sharp gaze upon Glorfindel's. Thranduil had sensed right away that they were being observed.

Legolas paused from speaking and turned in Glorfindel's direction too, and he felt pinned by the almost twin, icy stares of the Woodland's feared father and son.

Thranduil turned away first, dismissively, as if knowing Glorfindel was still useless company. The Elvenking was sitting on a simple chair next to his son's bed, but it was suddenly rendered regal by his presence upon it. He motioned vaguely for his son to continue. It was a flick of his wrist, barely anything really, but Legolas immediately continued speaking, voice low and even, lulling the fevered Glorfindel back to sleep.

**# # #**

Glorfindel next woke to the Woodland Prince, shuffling at sheaf's of reports and setting sheets of parchment aside with so much frustration that they rustled sharply.

When Legolas got to the end of the reports, he slammed them to his bed and rose to determined feet. He stumbled to one of the drawers, but secured his footing after just a few steps and with a frustrated shake of his head. He drew out a small knife that gleamed and reflected firelight, and he slashed at the sling to free his immobilized arm.

He grabbed his leathers and his weapons, but before he walked toward the doors, he looked at Glorfindel thoughtfully. Their eyes met, though from how the Woodland Prince acted, he apparently did not think the Balrog Slayer was much aware.

With a thoughtful frown marring his fine-featured face, Legolas first lowered his soldierly wares and, with freed hands, reached to secure Glorfindel's blanket higher over his chest.

Legolas nodded to himself in grim satisfaction, then picked up his effects and straightened. He walked to the doors and with a fortifying breath, walked purposefully out of the room without a glance behind or apparently, doubts within.

**# # #**

It was Thranduil's potent presence that next roused Glorfindel from his ill stupor. The Elvenking sat on a chair beside Glorfindel's bed, in similar form to how he had been sitting by Legolas earlier.

Thranduil's _fea_ was markedly different from his son's, Glorfindel could not help but note. The prince's presence was the soft glow of dawn emerging gently but unstoppably from the dark. Thranduil's was the raging fire of sunset bucking against the coming night.

The difference was stark, even as both elves borrowed from the same sun, these incandescent elves descended from Oropher. But that was likely because Thranduil, born in more peacable times, was light fighting against the dark, seeking to survive, preserve and endure. The younger Legolas was born under the shadow of dangerous times, fighting his way to the light. Each elf was, respectively, as that old adage goes: the immovable object and the irresistible force.

As different as they seemed, Glorfindel wondered if they got along.

"Elvenking Thranduil," he murmured breathily, "I would rise in your honor but alas... these are not the circumstances I had hoped for when I sought to meet with you."

"Lord Glorfindel," Thranduil said, giving the ailing elf before him a slight bow in acknowledgement of his own considerable standing.

Glorfindel, dizzy, winded and parched, nevertheless endeavored to push himself up to his elbows and lifted himself to a marginally sitting position.

They both knew better than to offer or seek help. Thranduil watched Glorfindel struggle with an unflappable equanimity, though the Elvenking did give the ailing warrior before him a cup of herb-laced water once he settled on the pillows and elaborate headboard behind him.

"Your people knew right away who I was," Glorfindel said, after gratefully taking the cup and allowing himself a cautious sip. The liquid roiled in his stomach, but helped him find relief and alertness quickly afterwards. He lowered the vessel to his side. "Even in the battlefield, they knew. I did not expect that."

"The light of your soul gives you away I'm afraid," said Thranduil, with a slight edge Glorfindel could sense but not yet understand. "It seems what the stories say are true. You are returned to Arda almost like the Maiar in power and presence... but there is that bothersome word, isn't it? _Almost_. A potent soul that shines, but does not yet have the power to cloak, conceal, or control. In a dark forest besieged by evil forces, it is almost a beacon. You have drawn out foul things from their wretched hiding places, my lord, for the dark will always seek to devour the light. The wiser evil ones knew to slink away, but the other filth - they are drawn as moths to a flame. Or perhaps, flies to horse shite."

_Which by analogy_, Glorfindel thought wryly, _would make me_...

"The consequences of which I now have to deal with," Thranduil said pointedly. And there, Glorfindel found Thranduil's simmering anger.

"Your presence has stirred a hornet's nest," the Elvenking continued, "You should not have come. We have long ensured the outside world knew there would be no welcome here. It is for your protection, as well as our own."

"For the troubles our traveling party has caused you, I apologize even as I know such an apology is not enough," Glorfindel said earnestly. "I hope our rescue did not shed the blood of your soldiers."

"That would be too lofty an ambition here."

Glorfindel winced.

"No one's died yet," Thranduil said. "At least from my side. But the skirmishes continue as we speak."

"If I may beg your indulgence, Elvenking - did my own soldiers survive?"

"You lost one," Thranduil said, and allowed Glorfindel a long moment to close his eyes, extend his senses to see who it might have been, and say a prayer for them. It was the elleth Nestadis whose fea felt lost to him. She was the youngest of their party from Imladris.

"How did she die?" Glorfindel asked.

Thranduil stared at him for a long moment before replying, "A knife to the chest. It was mercifully quick. But the body is irrecoverable, as tends to be around here."

Glorfindel's eyes watered at the thought. Was Nestadis to suffer the fate he had feared for himself? Feasted upon by the wolves?

"She was left?" he asked, voice hoarse.

"She was taken," Thranduil snapped, taking offense at the implication that his people would not have brought the elleth's hroa to proper rest.

But then that left only one conclusion. She was taken by orcs, Glorfindel realized.

_The body is irrecoverable_, Thranduil had said earlier, _as tends to be around here_...

Elves were likely eaten, and Glorfindel felt a deep, deep sadness about that poor young elleth's broken body being so desecrated. His fea reached out to those of his surviving soldiers', and he found them in states of anger, fear, pain and grief.

"I am sorry for your loss," Thranduil said, "Of those who survived, you are the worst of the lot. Everyone is being cared for as befitting their health and station."

"What would that be?" Glorfindel asked carefully, for with the mercurial and increasingly reclusive Thranduil, one could never know.

"As guests - unwelcome though they may be." There is a mad wood-elf gleam in this otherwise perfectly Sindarin royal's eye, a joke only he could understand, a sliver of wicked humor. "We are after all, not savages here."

If it is meant to unnerve, it is somewhat effective. A First Age warrior-lord favored by the Valar couldn't be immune from everything, especially not after the recent loss of a comrade. The passing of Nestadis would be painful for Elrond and all of Rivendell – no one has been lost by the household for some time now.

"So, Lord Glorfindel," said Thranduil, "You know as well as I that I am not visiting you for condolences, commiseration or charity, even if you are who you are. I am here because I find that in these circumstances, I can expect my guests to be, shall we say, more forthcoming."

Grieving, injured, drugged, fevered, half-naked, isolated from his men whose states were uncertain, Thranduil was strategic to corner Glorfindel in a state of vulnerability. But he was never one to be cowed.

Glorfindel sat up straighter. He did not know Thranduil very well but he'd been warned – repeatedly – to stay on his toes. The Elvenking was not just sharp, he was incisive. How else could he and his people have survived the admittedly messy situation Oropher's tragic death had left his son and his people? The elves of the Woodland were more naturalistic than others of the firstborn, but they should never be mistaken for being innocent or backwards. This was not the backcountry, this was the front of the war... and Thranduil was as adept at politicking as he was with a sword.

Thranduil asked: "What precisely are you doing here, aside from disrupting my forest?"

"I come on behalf of the White Council-"

Immediately the Elvenking rolled back his eyes. "Ah that council of the wise, is it? So late to understanding the game and yet upon whose decisions the fate of the world so rests."

"With all due respect, you could be a part of if you so desire."

"It costs me lives almost every time someone goes in and out of my forest lately, my lord," said Thranduil, "That is a price too steep for the benefit of sitting around in theory and debate. A price too steep even if I did wish to participate, which I have no interest in. The last time my people cooperated in such collaborative endeavors, we paid disproportionately higher than everyone else."

"At no shortage of your people's own doing, if I may say," Glorfindel said in defense, boldly because they both knew Thranduil's father, the previous Elvenking, had made lethal missteps too. They were both there in the fight that claimed the lives of fiery Oropher and a good chunk of the Woodland's fighting men and women from a miscalculation by their own leader. The Last Alliance was in another age, but the wounds cut deep.

And yet Thranduil surprised him by receiving Glorfindel's argument well.

"You may say," Thranduil said calmly. "But I am not Oropher, and you and your intrusions are not welcome here under my watch. Neither are your overtures toward alliance and coordination."

"But it need not be that," said Glorfindel, "at least not right away. My mission here is three-fold. The first objective is to ascertain the condition of your people. You have been isolated too long, Elvenking. We couldn't have let it stand, never knowing the fate of our kin here."

Thranduil waved the concern away, dismissively, like a speck of lint.

"Second," continued Glorfindel, "I was to re-establish diplomacy with your House. Things are afoot, the enemy is making his move, and we may have need of each other. It is why I was sent, rather than a messenger or any other soldier. This mission required an elf who could hold his own in the dangerous journey here, but also someone of reasonably high standing, of a reputation you can more or less verify and trust –"

Thranduil almost smirked at the humble euphemisms, though they both knew Glorfindel was speaking of the doors that opened for him because of his renown.

" – and someone with whom you could negotiate at a high level," the ancient warrior continued. "Finally, I was to share valuable information with you and hope to acquire some in return. The Council knows more of what dwells in Dol Guldur, that which has driven your people ever northwards. And with the sharing of knowledge, I am hoping we can come to productive action. So as you see, it needn't be a formal alliance right away."

"Your _objectives_," Thranduil lingers on the word, with a veiled but unmistakable derision, "while sensible and well-intentioned, I will each put to quick rest. My people will continue to endure here with no need for foreign interference. While dangerous, we have fallen into predictable patterns as of late, broken only by your arrival and the violence it has spurred. So you see, contrary to your objective of ascertaining our well-being and helping us, you have actually endangered us."

"We could not have known that would happen," Glorfindel pointed out, without regret. "As I said – we would never have simply lived with the uncertainty of what had befallen the elves here. While I apologize for the instability we brought, surely you must know this was an inevitability. Your people were bound to look in on you. And with the growing strength of your southern foes, the patterns were bound to break. The Enemy would have made his move sooner or later, with or without our arrival."

Thranduil shrugged. "Be that as it may, now you do know of the danger you bring. We do not welcome your interference in our affairs. You come here with that unimpeachable fea of yours and everything comes out of the woodwork in skirmishes my soldiers are still fighting. There are dangers here you do not understand and that you are ill-equipped for. The villains are different here, my lord. And if you do not live here - you die here. Do you understand?

"If you did not grow beneath these darkening trees," the Elvenking continued, "fighting as we have fought, tainted by a shadow we have allowed to creep in so that we may not be so easily hunted – you will stick out like a flame in the dark, and they will snuff you out. You are ill-equipped to help me, even if I had any need of you. Which I do not.

"Second," he went on, "I can ill-afford long-distance diplomacy in times like this. We keep external relations and commerce but in limited form with our neighbors, and growing more limited still. We are self-sustaining and prepared for whatever will come. I have neither time nor inclination to coordinate with you and your vaunted council. You tarry too long over matters that require my immediate action because of proximity, and I have no wish to risk traveling parties on perilous roads to and from you. You think I do not have an inkling of that which gathers strength in Dol Guldur? You are mistaken.

"That said," the Elvenking conceded, "Since you are already here, there is indeed, some opportunity to learn from each other. My people shall restore you and your men to proper fitness my lord, and you will have every hospitality extended to you here. We can exchange information as you heal, and when you are firmly on your feet, I will outfit you with proper escort out of the Woodland."

"You said lives are lost every time someone goes in and out of your forest," Glorfindel pointed out.

"I said – almost," Thranduil corrected. "You shall be traveling with the best, mark my word. If anyone can survive the harrowing exit to bring you and then to return here, it will be the company of my most gifted commanders, whose services you will have."

It was a good start, Glorfindel decided, and he nodded solemnly in acceptance and gratitude.

"But remember, of whatever you learn here," Thranduil said, "you must write nothing down. And certain security information will be withheld from you as the occasion arises. We cannot risk our security in case you are captured and interrogated by our foes."

Thranduil thereafter abruptly concluded the meeting – such as it was – by ordering of someone Glorfindel could not see: "Enter!"

The curtains of the royal suites of the healing halls were parted by guards from beyond, and in came the Woodland Prince - again bedraggled, but keeping his own two feet this time.

The stench of blood on him was powerful, but he was in such a state of disarray it was hard to tell if it was all his or someone else's. He bowed before the king his father, and drops of fresh red liquid fell to the ground. He straightened to a soldier's alert stance after Thranduil acknowledged his greeting.

"Welcome back, Captain. Though I must say, you should not have been away to begin with. You were not cleared for duty."

"Circumstances demanded immediate action, _aran-nin_."

"Did they?" Thranduil asked, mock-gravely. "Because clearly, you were the only capable soldier in my halls at the time, is that correct? Clearly, you were the most gifted, the only one who could save us all. Clearly, your sheer bravery and prowess were the only things that stood between victory and defeat. How lucky we are here in the Woodland, to have someone of such skill and sense of sacrifice."

The Prince's jaw twitched, but he bit his tongue and took his father's verbal lashing quietly.

"Well?" Thranduil snapped, "Have you nothing to say for yourself?"

"I respectfully request I not be dressed down before outsiders, _aran-nin_," Legolas said, pointedly, of the presence of Glorfindel.

"You will be dressed down wherever and in whatever fashion I desire," Thranduil said coolly.

"I am Prince of my Realm and Oropher's grandson besides," Legolas said – and Glorfindel marveled at both his cleverness and nerve, cutting off his association from his father as a kind of censure for Thranduil's behavior. Legolas had meant it to sting and it did, for Thranduil's lips pursed in displeasure at being outsmarted.

Still, there was a part of the Elvenking that seemed to appreciate his young son's cunning, for his eyes glinted. "Ah, but Oropher is quite dead, isn't he? That you, _princeling_, would tell on me to my _adar_ is a threat that does not have teeth."

Glorfindel found it all morbidly amusing. After all, in so many ways, Thranduil had called Legolas a child who will run to his grandfather saying 'I will tell on you!' It rightfully irked the young but fully-grown elven prince.

"Well?" Thranduil prompted the stewing, younger wood-elf. "Explain yourself to your king, soldier."

The young prince kept an impassive face and a curt tone, but he stood there palpably seething, and it was an undercurrent that charged the room. It was soundless but cloying, loud in a secret, sonic place, like whistles only dogs could hear. But he still, albeit begrudgingly, made his accounts to his king.

"The circumstances of the..." he tossed a mild glance of reproach Glorfindel's way, for Thranduil was not the only elf who had courted his princely ire this day. "The circumstances of the disturbance of new arrivals to our woods created – is still creating – unprecedented activity. Our soldiers were overwhelmed. They needed reinforcements from anyone who could stand and fight."

"Bed-ridden, retching out poison for days is the new definition of able to fight, is it?"

"I was recovering and of a state better than many of those injured and fighting at the front by the time I arrived," Legolas replied.

He shifted uncomfortably, and more blood fell to the floor. The perceptive Thranduil could not have missed it, Glorfindel thought, nor could he have missed the presence of a number of healers idling by the curtains, apparently waiting to see to their prince. But the perverse - perhaps even cruel - interrogation continued, for reasons apparently only Thranduil understood.

"And if I may be permitted to say, _aran-nin_," the prince added, straightening proudly, for he was beginning to sway, "we cannot afford to be naïve about the contributions of my skill set. I can change outcomes."

"You are naïve if you think skill is enough," snapped Thranduil. "Even the best do not survive when the circumstances are so dire, what more the ailing? You all but court disaster whenever you go out in poor health, not only for yourself but for your mission, for those who follow you, for those who rely on you and those who are responsible for you-"

The prince's eyes were fluttering, and he blinked stubbornly at his own weaknesses. He was pale and blanching further, and Glorfindel had to bite his tongue to keep from interfering. He did not even know why he was allowed to be a witness here.

Legolas finally cut his own father off. "I refuse to be-!" He closed his eyes and swallowed reflexively, "I refuse to be, to be punished for doing my job!"

The sudden outburst had Thranduil snatching at his son's arm and Glorfindel almost reached out to stop the Elvenking. But he realized, quickly, that Thranduil had not grabbed Legolas in anger or violence. On the contrary, the Elvenking gripped him to steady him, and Glorfindel had even spotted an affectionate and grounding squeeze, one which Legolas responded to by calming down and slowly opening his bleary eyes.

Glorfindel realized then, that Thranduil was neither perverse, nor cruel to his son. Furthermore, that Legolas was not the one being punished by this exercise.

_I am_, he thought.

Legolas was perhaps too young yet to know he was simply being educated, whereas it was Glorfindel who was being punished. Look, the Elvenking implored without speaking it outright: _my soldiers go out hurt and unwell. I send my son to bleed. This is the life we have, and the cost of your intrusion_.

But Thranduil had shown him something else too, something the Elvenking might not have been intending but had nevertheless put on display: that he would use his son if he needed to, for whatever purpose necessary. By blood, sweat and body and warring, just as much as by politics and messaging, he would use his son if he needed to.

_This is the life they have_...

"I apologize, _ada-ran-nin_," Legolas said, quick to correct himself though his voice was slurring. "I am not, I am not... quite, mys- mys-"

He fell to a dead faint – eyes gone to whites, head lolling, legs folding, knees collapsing, a person reduced to a heap of boneless limbs.

Glorfindel, by instinct, shot forward to help – straining his healing stomach to his own detriment. The world exploded, and when he next became aware, he was curled on his side and blearily watching as Thranduil, who had apparently caught the Prince, carried his child cradled in his arms to the sickbed opposite Glorfindel's.

"Maenor!" the Elvenking barked out to the healers beyond, and in came a flurry of responders immediately. But before Thranduil left his son's side, Glorfindel caught his touch lingering on strands of Legolas' golden hair.

It was a disconcertingly slow, gentle gesture given the abruptness of Legolas' collapse. It replayed in Glorfindel's head as his view of the prince was blocked by healers, and he macabrely reflected that the sight was very much akin to the proverbial puppet with its strings suddenly cut.

But what was so different between Thranduilion and a puppet, anyways. Both these were playthings of fate and in Legolas' case, he was also a pawn of his pragmatic - even if loving - father's.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	3. It Always Passes

**hello everyone!**

Hope the week is treating everyone well. Thank you to all who are reading, following, favoriting and especially all who are reviewing my fic so far. Engaging in the community is a great way of helping us all be better readers / writers / fans, and I am grateful for you taking the time :) I send out PM responses when able, so sign your reviews if you can - I can be pretty wordy in responses when they do come, though I am often late which I apologize. I just hope everyone is enjoying the reading as much as I am enjoying the writing. C&Cs are always welcome and best wishes to all!

Without further ado:

**# # #**  
**3: It Always Passes**

_Mirkwood, T.A. 2851_  
**# # #**

Glorfindel's fever came and went with the whims of an unforgiving infection.

Thus, he woke and slept to vignettes of his royal roommate's own struggles. It was his only form of diversion, not to mention he could barely move his head from the direct view of Legolas' bed across from his own.

He suspected the arrangement was by design. There were only two beds here in the royal suites, clearly meant for the Elvenking and his son the Prince. If they both ended up in here at the same time, it stood to reason they would want a view of how the other was doing.

But between strangers, such as Glorfindel and Legolas were, it felt too intimate, almost voyeuristic. He sometimes felt he had no right to the show, so to speak, and he only later realized Legolas was probably watching him at some point too. He wondered at what the elven prince saw.

Once, Glorfindel woke to the prince's fevered ranting. He was surrounded by harried healers trying to pin him down, and Glorfindel could see nothing of him but his surprisingly thin, long, ghostly white limbs flaying. Bare-footed legs kicking, arms thrown this way and that, his sleeping shift and robes dislodged as he fought back against those who held him.

"They're getting away!" he was yelling. Legolas' voice was already broken by disease and likely, previous screaming long before Glorfindel had woken. "Let me up, damn you. Let me up!"

Another time, Glorfindel jolted awake to the prince in a dramatically contrasting incarnation. It was dark, and Legolas was inexplicably sitting by Glorfindel's bed, brushing sweat-sticky strands of Glorfindel's hair from his forehead.

"You're not burning, my lord," the Prince was saying soothingly. "It is only the fever. You are unwell, but you will mend. Your troubles have long since passed, and this sickness will pass too. It will pass..."

Glorfindel fell asleep to Legolas wiping tears from his eyes, tears he did not even know he had shed or why.

Another time, Glorfindel woke to find Legolas sitting up in bed and angrily going through reports again. It looked just like the first time, and he wondered if it was a memory or a regular occurrence. He slipped away to sleep again.

An indeterminable time later, Glorfindel woke to find the prince Legolas on the bed across from his own again, but this time lying on his side, with his handsome face crumpled in an anguished scream.

Glorfindel puzzled, for he heard no sound of it, and at first he thought his senses were still addled. But he could hear a small bustle from beyond their room and he realized, suddenly, that his ears were perfectly operational. It was Legolas' "screaming" that was broken.

He was doing it without sound.

Legolas' eyes were crazed and streaming, and his mouth was open to straining. His chest heaved up and down, up and down in large breaths and he unleashed them in long spells without a whisper bursting from his lips. His hands were clenched to fists, and then they clawed and ran over his face and his hair.

Glorfindel wondered if Legolas had lost his mind, or if he himself had, seeing something so strange.

But then suddenly, the elven Prince turned his anguished gaze up at the ancient warrior and Glorfindel – guilty witness and voyeur to the other's naked torment - felt pinned. Legolas' eyes, silver blue slivers, trapped him.

The Prince's expressions warred amongst themselves – there was anger at being watched. Inextricable embarrassment. Continuing, helpless anguish. Lies streaked across his eyes, empty things he seemed tempted to tell. The air between them was thick with it, and Glorfindel contemplated closing his eyes and pretending he had not seen anything.

Instead, he said quietly into the chasm between them – "Should I call someone?"

It sounded dumb and hollow in the quiet room, but it broke the spell, and Legolas found his own words.

"I am well," said the prince softly. "I did not mean to disturb your rest with my... indulgences. I apologize, there is uh, there is no place else where no one can hear. It has passed. It always passes."

Glorfindel nodded, though he did not completely understand what he saw, and why. It looked like grief. It looked like guilt. It looked like madness. But whatever "it" was, by the careful control that had seeped back into Legolas' face and his body, it had indeed passed on.

_It always passes..._

**# # #**

Glorfindel's disorienting fever broke fully some days later, and he opened his eyes to find his "roommate" on his feet and fully dressed.

Legolas was not in the weathered camouflage warrior's garb Glorfindel had first seen him in, nor in the sleeping shifts and robes he wore while in convalescence. Today, he was in an all-black ensemble that had soldierly tailoring, and dark leathers that still held his weaponry.

It was, Glorfindel realized, formal military mourning.

Legolas was still pale, and especially so in the dark clothing. But he was steady on his feet as he leaned a hip against the well-made bed he had apparently risen from, and he looked impatient as he listened to a healer giving him a list of reminders.

Movements to limit, stitches to watch out for, to not, not, not for the love of the gods drink any wine this night in deference to his medications, and to return to the healing hall for continued observation after the ceremony or sooner for any, any, any form of discomfort.

"I am well-aware, my lord Maenor," Legolas said wearily. "And while I am grateful for your dedication to your work, we would both save much time and breath and perhaps even resentment if we gave this little set of reminders a name in short-form."

"And what do you propose?" the older healer asked, wryly.

"Perhaps you can just say – 'I can nag you, but I won't.' I will know what you mean and naught else need be said of the matter," came the tart response.

The healer gave his prince an un-elvish snort. "I will call it 'Responsible Patient Protocol.'"

"I will call it 'Nagging.'"

The healer found no offense – and continued nonchalantly with his reminders. Eventually he left, to be replaced by new arrivals who had been waiting for their turn at the prince's audience from just beyond the doors. Into the room came three elven attendants, two of whom were bearing silver trays. One tray held a weapon wrapped in cloth. The other held a bed of silk on top of which lay a sparkling, princely circlet. Legolas went for the weapon first. He unwrapped it to reveal a slim white knife.

It was, Glorfindel reflected, an unconventional weapon for an elf, much less a royal. But it clearly matched a knife that was already on Legolas' back, the half of a pair. The Prince lifted it, first testing its weight and then its fit on his hand. He swung it to test for aerodynamics and movement.

"_Hannon le_," he murmured as he slipped it into the holster at his back to join its twin. "And my compliments to the armory as always."

The attendant bowed and backed away, giving room for the two other elves. The one whose hands were free ceremoniously lifted the circlet and with a bow, handed it to his prince. Legolas took it with far less reverence and planted it over his unbraided hair. He dismissed his attendants then, and they left quickly.

Legolas closed his eyes and pinched at the bridge of his nose, as if staving off a headache, or an ill thought, or both. But then he opened them quickly and turned to face Glorfindel.

"One would think a lord of your standing would have the manners to announce his presence," Legolas berated him, but mildly.

"I am not entirely sure I am here now," Glorfindel admitted. His voice was gravely and he winced at it.

"Ah, there is that."

The Prince approached, and gave him a cup of water to drink from a pitcher by his nightstand. Legolas watched Glorfindel drink, and took his empty cup and set it aside afterwards.

"You took grievous hurts and a turn for the worst," Legolas explained. "You've been in and out of consciousness for a week, fevered for most of it. But the crisis is passed, and we expect a complete recovery with time. We can, I suppose, go about relations the proper way now." Legolas gave him a long, low bow.

"Lord Glorfindel. I am Legolas Greenleaf."

It was, Glorfindel thought, a strange way for a prince to introduce himself.

"Thranduilion," Glorfindel said, rising to shaky but determined elbows and nodding a solemn bow. "I owe you my life – your highness. I remember you in the battle."

Legolas received the grave statement and title with an almost-grimace. "I merely plugged a hole, my lord. The distinction of life-saver would belong to the field healer of our company."

"Naston," Glorfindel said, remembering.

"Yes," Legolas murmured, "Naston."

"I would be most grateful if the prince is able to convey my gratitude."

"The prince is unable," Legolas said quietly, and it took Glorfindel only a moment to link the statement with the prince's mourning military blacks.

"I am sorry for your loss," Glorfindel said sincerely, "and... and perhaps, for our part in it." He hadn't unequivocally apologized to Thranduil, before. But it seemed apt now.

Legolas looked at him thoughtfully for a long moment. "The condolences I accept, the regrets I cannot. I do not share aran-nin's perspective that the more predictable situation we eke out here is sustainable if there were no outside interference. With the enemy gaining strength, an escalation in conflict was inevitable whether spurred by you, or by the Enemy's growing confidence in their ability to best us."

Glorfindel's brows rose not only at the revelation that the prince did not share in his father's politics, but also in his openness to speak about it. But as surely as Glorfindel's recent loss of a comrade disarmed him, perhaps that was also the case here.

The prince glanced uncertainly at the exit. "The soldier Naston is but one of those we will remember today. There are a few others, and your own Nestadis will be sung and prayed for."

Glorfindel jumped at the subject. "Will my own soldiers be in attendance?"

Legolas hesitated. "This ceremony is for my people. You will be allowed your own remembrances. Perhaps when you are better."

Glorfindel nodded. "I request an indulgence, if you will. I pine for visitors. My second-in-command at least, so that I may have specific information on the status of my men, and so that they too can see how I fare."

"Arrangements can be made," Legolas said, and Glorfindel did not miss its noncommittal nature. He reached out his senses for his soldiers, but found them more or less in the same state as before: hurting but alive and recovering, grieving, somewhat angry. But if it was the case that they were well – why did Glorfindel get the feeling that the Prince and Thranduil were keeping him from them?

"I must go," Legolas said. "I am expected to speak in honor of the dead."

"I am sorry for your loss," Glorfindel said again.

"And I am sorry for yours," Legolas murmured, as he bowed and made his exit.

**# # #**

Glorfindel drifted in a restful, healing half-sleep, which was interrupted an indeterminate time later when a familiar hand gripped him by the shoulders and he jerked awake. His gaze settled on one of his soldiers, Istor.

"My lord Glorfindel!" he said in an anxious whisper, "It is good to see you well and cared for. We worried."

Glorfindel, with some help, sat up straighter. He looked at his second-in-command searchingly. "I know of the tragedy that has befallen Nestadis. How are the rest of our soldiers?"

"We are well," Istor replied hastily, before focusing on news of their fallen soldier. "You know of Nestadis, my lord?" He looked at the entrance anxiously.

"Yes, that she had fallen in battle."

"Lower your voice a tad, Lord Glorfindel, I do not think I am allowed here."

Glorfindel's brows rose. Either things were as he suspected and they were being kept apart, or protocols were so strict here that non-nobles were not allowed in the royal suite of the healing halls.

"Why wouldn't you be?"

Istor glanced at the doors nervously again.

"My lord, I don't think they told you everything there is to know of Nestadis," said the soldier quickly. "You were evacuated first on account of the serious nature of your wounds, but I was amongst the last to leave. I was there when one of our soldiers told the wood-elves we were missing one of our own. The orcs in retreat had run off with Nestadis, who was injured but alive. The wood-elves assembled a small hunting party to come after them. It was too small a group, in my estimation, to come after the departing horde. But they were already spread thin with elves escorting you, those guarding the injured at the battle site, and then the third group coming after those who had taken Nestadis. Too small, my lord. But to leave her and call for reinforcements was also unthinkable."

"They didn't return with her."

"No my lord," he said. "The hunting party returned to report that they did everything they could for her but she was irrecoverable. We begged them on her behalf – she could be alive, we should mount a rescue party later and so on. We knew the orcs would keep her alive for their perverted pleasures. They did for the Lady Celebrian, didn't they?"

Glorfindel winced. They all knew what had befallen the Lady of Imladris. The tortures she had been subject to, the life she afterwards could no longer face.

"But the wood-elves insisted Nestadis was dead and that they would not risk lives needlessly by going deeper into the south to recover a corpse."

"She is dead," Glorfindel pointed out, "I would feel it if she was not. And as deplorable as it sounds, it was the right tactical decision."

"They didn't just cease pursuit after she was dead in the hands of the orcs, my lord," Istor said, eyes wide with slight disbelief and an undercurrent of anger. "I think they killed her."

Glorfindel's instinct was to spurn the suggestion. But in a more measured tone he said, "That is a serious accusation."

"And I do not make it lightly."

"What makes you say so?" Glorfindel asked.

"All of us from Imladris who was able to voice a plea, we begged," Istor replied. "We begged them, incessantly. We demanded, we bribed, we threatened. We wept, we yelled. We hoped she was alive; we do not have your senses of soul and light and we had to hope she was alive. There was no other recourse for us. I think we got to that Captain of theirs. I know now – he is their prince. He'd had enough and he told us he was certain she was dead because he 'made sure.' He said it was better that she was dead because of what they would do to her. He started saying something that sounded akin to, 'I ki-' and then he was cut off by that lieutenant of his. But I think we both know what he was going to say."

"He killed her," Glorfindel finished quietly. "He had killed Nestadis rather than letting her fall into their hands alive."

The soldier closed his eyes. "These people are barbaric."

Glorfindel set his jaws, and his heart and mind raced. If true, it was a hard decision to make, maybe even a noble one, but was it necessary? The orcs would have kept Nestadis alive, and a rescue could be arranged for later, couldn't it? Did she really have to die? And why had all of these been kept from him?

"I must go, my lord," Istor said. "We were given appropriate treatment, and then kept in soldierly barracks elsewhere in this labyrinthine, glorified cave. We were neither expressly forbidden from seeing you, nor were arrangements made for us to do so even after repeated requests. I only snuck out – they are occupied with that memorial ceremony of theirs and the guards are thinned, but things will get harder for me soon."

"Be careful," Glorfindel said with a nod. "I thank you for your determination to reach and report to me. I will relieve you of this issue. Let me ponder on how to move forward with this. All I need you to do is ensure the well-being of our men in my absence and assure them I am recovering. I will also ask you to endeavor to maintain good relations with our hosts, in spite of your suspicions. I will take care of this grave matter."

"Aye, my lord," Istor said with a bow, before cautiously making his exit. He left the room quietly, and all was just as it was before he came, as if he had never been at all.

Except of course, that Glorfindel's mind was in turmoil.

He tossed and turned in his bed, but could find neither rest nor sleep. He sat up carefully and wished for a conversation, a book, heck even a crack in the ceiling, anything upon which he could amuse himself. But there was nothing and he was restless. He decided he would try to rise to his feet.

It was a mistake, but not a costly one. He swayed and was almost sick with it, but it was an activity at least, and he quickly gained better footing. He shook his legs, took tentative steps along the length of his bed while he clung onto the mattress for support. He wasn't a fool and he walked carefully, for he had no plans of a health setback just because he had pushed himself too hard. He wanted his strength back. He needed it back in this savage place.

Glorfindel pondered the situation in his head. He thought of the dark shadows he had sensed in Prince Legolas' fea. He thought of fathers who let their sons bleed, of soldiers who cry soundlessly into their beds at night because, _"There is no place here where no one can hear."_

**# # #**

The Prince of the Woodland Realm did not follow the previously mocked 'Responsible Patient Protocol.'

Glorfindel watched as Legolas was returned to the healing halls a drunken mess with torn stitches. The elven prince was held aloft by that giant Silvan of his, Renior, and trailed by a cadre of his worried-looking loyal soldiers. They were so occupied that the ancient Lord standing in the shadows and watching them from the other side of the room went temporarily unnoticed.

"We weren't sure if he was ill or in his cups," one of them said to the chief healer. "But he never gets drunk, my lord. Never. That is why we are here."

Lord Maenor thanked and dismissed them all. He received his patient in a strange combination of worry and triumph – "I told you so" was one of the first things out of his mouth, but he was gentle as he helped the bleary prince to sit on the bed, and deftly divested him of weapons, leathers, armor, tunic and shirts, like peeling away layers of an onion.

"There is literally no regulation of my reminders that you did not defy," said Maenor. "Ah, my fine, strong stitches. They are no match for your delinquency, your highness."

The swaying Legolas quietly accepted the kind hands and also the muttered rebukes.

"I think you are drunk on top of the remnants of that medicine you'd taken before leaving here," Maenor continued as he helped Legolas to lie upon the bed. "The blood from the torn stitches is not nearly enough to be this detrimental. Lie back for a while, ernil-nin, and I will fetch more healers to assist in some needlework. The rest of your symptoms I think you can sleep off-"

"No, please," Legolas slurred, and his heavy hand lashed onto Maenor's forearm, but it was his begging eyes that compelled the healer more powerfully. "No, my lord, please. I have made enough of a spectacle of myself, I think."

"I will need to re-do some stitches," Maenor said carefully. "And as much as you deserve some painful punishment for your transgressions, I am sorry to say I cannot give you anything much to dull the pain given this ridiculous inebriation you have brought upon yourself."

"I can help," Glorfindel offered as he stepped out of the shadows of his forgotten corner.

Maenor jumped. Legolas, whether by drunken stoicism or awareness of Glorfindel's presence, did not. The ancient lord walked the short distance to them carefully.

"With all due respect, my lord," Maenor said, "My procedure will inflict pain and ernil-nin is a soldier designed to fight it. He will resist me, or perhaps even hit back. I need someone, preferably several someones actually - to hold him. This is an activity you are not advised to do in your own state of recovery, even if you were able to do it, which I doubt."

"'Responsible Patient Protocol,'" Legolas said dryly, pointing vaguely in the direction of the approaching ancient warlord. "Tell him, Maenor."

"Why bother? Clearly, no one listens to me."

Glorfindel reached the prince's bedside.

"There are many means of finding pain relief," he said, and with a hand upon Legolas' wrist, he infused the younger elf with warmth, strength and light.

They spiraled away from darkness, pain and grief - together.

**# # #**

Glorfindel tired easily, and as uncomfortable as it was, after helping subdue Legolas he preferred settling down on the seat at the prince's bedside over having to make the walk – the trek – back to his own.

"Thank you for your help, my lord Glorfindel," Maenor had told him earnestly before leaving, as he fixed the blankets on his prince's sleeping form. "You are..." he winced in search of an appropriate term, "You are as remarkable as they say, for all the good and bad of it."

Glorfindel spared them both the embarrassment of pondering what exactly that meant, and the healer exited and left.

That was, by Glorfindel's estimation, a few hours' past. He drifted in reverie, until his quarry started to come around.

The prince woke with a groan of misery familiar to one who has repeatedly experienced the morning after one of Imladris' elaborate, indulgent feasts at the Hall of Fire. Legolas pressed palms over his eyes, and Glorfindel let him settle before saying anything.

The hungover princeling sighed and said, without removing his hands from his eyes - "One would think a lord of your standing would have the manners to announce his presence... and would not need to be told this twice."

"I would accept the rebuke if you accept one from me: as one noble soldier to another, you'd deliberately withheld vital information."

Legolas sobered quickly – he rose to sit – but not nearly quickly enough. The wood-elf turned a good green shade about the face, enough that Glorfindel almost jumped out of the way of a potential sickness. But the prince kept down his lunch.

"I am not noble," Legolas said flatly. "But you who claim to be so, you would accost me this way?"

Glorfindel instinctively found the most appropriate response, courtesy of what Thranduil had told him earlier. "I am not here for commiseration or charity. I am here because I find that in these circumstances, I can expect you to be, shall we say, more forthcoming."

"You would quote _aran-nin_ to me?" asked Legolas, who was undoubtedly familiar with the statement. Glorfindel wondered, fleetingly, if it was because Thranduil had told it to his son before, or if it was because Legolas overheard the earlier conversation between Glorfindel and the Elvenking.

"There seems a kind of justice in it," Glorfindel said dryly.

"Why should the son have to pay the sins of the father?" Legolas countered, before adding wistfully, "Well. I suppose that is the way of things. And I withheld information only insofar as you were not deemed well enough to comprehend fully or act upon what knowledge I could impart. I intend, and have been given leave by both the king and your healer, to answer your questions."

"Then tell me this, as one commander to another: What happened to my soldier, Nestadis?"

"The uruk-hai took her in the melee," Legolas answered. "We could not have known right away. Not until one of your soldiers wizened up to the fact you were missing someone. Our numbers were small to begin with - we were but a patrol – and further thinned from the demands of assisting your party. We knew the odds of successful recovery but out of professional courtesy a handful of us gave pursuit."

"You yourself were in this hunt?"

"Yes, of course."

Glorfindel waited expectantly. The prince, who had some of his father's perverse tolerance for silent discomfort, let him.

"Then?" Glorfindel pressed.

"They rapidly headed south," Legolas replied. His eyes had taken on a distant look, as he retreated into memory. "Toward Dol Guldur. They were in hasty retreat and made no effort at hiding their tracks so they were easy to find when we set out. But while they were remnants of the group that overtook you and your men, they still numbered more than us. And the closer they came to their sphere of influence, the likelihood was high that they would be reinforced. We had very, very limited time. A sliver of a chance to save your soldier.

"We reached them a hairsbreadth before they were reinforced," Legolas said tonelessly. "Your soldier was alive and made commendable efforts at making her capture difficult for them. But she was hurting badly and they were cruel and plenty – it was futile. We were watching a broken-winged bird bucking in the jaws of a wolf surrounded by his pack."

Glorfindel grimaced.

"We engaged immediately," Legolas went on, his face and voice devoid of expression now. "But we knew from the sounds of the forest that their reinforcements were coming. We had seconds to retrieve her and thereafter attempt to run. Success in that case, however, would still have been bittersweet – even if we managed to take her, we would have been hampered by her transport if our foes chose to pursue. She was either going to be captured alone, or with all the rest of us. It is an easily calculable combat decision. The rescue attempt had to be abandoned."

"You left her in their clutches," Glorfindel said tightly, trying his best not to sound too angry, or disappointed. It would have been a difficult decision to make on the ground, and a fair one.

"I ordered the retreat," Legolas said, "and I dealt the blow that ended your soldier's life. To leave her alive with the filth was unfathomable."

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	4. Arrogant, Naive

**hello everyone!**

_ I almost made it to a week between posts, lol. Thanks to your kind reviews, here I am throwing a bit more posting discipline out the window, lol. I really hope I can sustain this energy until I bring us to a more or less satisfying conclusion (I am already up to chaoter 10, with quite a ways to go though!). Thank you so much for all who read, followed, favorited and especially all who reviewed. I treasure every encouraging word. PM responses will be out soon, but I thought I should thank you the best way I know how - with a new chapter :) C&C's are as welcome as always, and I really hope you enjoy the read as much as I enjoy writing. Without further ado:_

# # #

**4: Arrogant, Naïve**

# # #

_Mirkwood, T.A. 2851_

# # #

"She died quickly, I can guarantee it," the Prince of the Woodland Realm assured his guest, the ancient Gondolin lord, Glorfindel. He made a vague, tired gesture with his long, graceful hands, made malevolent only by how casual he seemed about it all.

"If there had been any pain," Legolas continued, "It would have been fleeting."

"I would like to inquire as to why so drastic and irreversible an option was exercised upon my soldier," Glorfindel said, stiffly. "Capture and survival is always _always _preferable to death. As long as one survives, there is a fighting chance. A chance for rescue-"

"You do not know what captivity means here," Legolas said darkly. "I do not know what fairy tales you tell each other in your enchanted valley, my lord, so let me educate you about the realities _we_ face everyday. Can you imagine a place that has become so plagued by foul things its very name is changed? I know what outsiders call our home. Here, in _Mirkwood_, when one is captured, one is tortured either for sport, for information or, or worse – for for _corruption_. Here, _everyone_ breaks in some way eventually, even the strongest, the bravest, the most noble – because that is torture's singular design and we are immortal and sturdy, and they have all the time in the world to remake us. Everyone begs and everyone breaks. This means that anyone who is captured alive is a risk to all else who remain free. This is our way, and all who are soldiers in the Woodland are both aware and welcoming of the sacrifice required."

Glorfindel's jaw tightened at the derision for Imladris – fairy tales in an enchanted valley... is that what they really thought? Did they not know of what its people had to suffer just to get there? And how, even after everything, they were still not exempt for heartbreak? Did they not know what its Lady Celebrian had suffered, and what her singular torment had done to the Lord of Imladris, what poison it had shot into the hearts of her vindictive children? And how that whole household heard her tortured screams echoing up and down its halls, how she never really escaped, how she kept returning to her torture every moment she was awake, how her ruined mind ravaged her body and her broken self stained the very air of the home she lived in? How, when she finally sailed to Valinor – to Glorfindel's endless shame – he many like him felt _relief?_

But he held his tongue, and his anger. What did he and Legolas really know of each other any way? He did not even know if Mirk- Eryn Galen - still had a queen, or if Thranduil had any other children. That was precisely why he was here after all, so that they may have more information. Furthermore, it was clear the derision came from a place of pain. Glorfindel was wise enough to know he did not need to feed that insatiable monster.

"But Nestadis is not of your Woodland," argued Glorfindel calmly instead. "She should not have been subject to the same mores. She would not have had any information to risk you or your people."

"She was a uniformed elven soldier in the Woodland even if she was not of it," Legolas countered. "When one enters this world, one lives by this world. It is all we know, especially when it comes to decisions made in a moment's notice on the ground. Furthermore – she would have been dead either way, whether she knew anything vital or not. My blade and my hand, at least, had spared her from torture and defilement."

"Why is the option of a future rescue so immediately dismissed here?" Glorfindel asked.

"I wouldn't risk the lives of many for one when the odds of success are almost provably none," Legolas replied. "The facts are: we were too few to successfully retrieve her when she was taken. By the time we regrouped, she would have already been taken to the enemy's well-fortified South... where we would have died trying to get to her."

Legolas stared at the older warrior for a long moment. "You come here stirring up a hornet's nest, stay a few days and question the means by which we've managed to survive, thinking you would know better, my lord? We make the decisions that we do, based on a wealth of experience."

"Death is too final," Glorfindel said.

"That is rich, coming from you."

Glorfindel ignored the quip. "Other options should have been explored. She should have been given a fighting chance."

"We have lived like this every single day for centuries," Legolas pointed out. "That you think you know better is either arrogant or naïve."

"That you think you already know everything and can no longer bother with improvements is just as arrogant or naïve."

"Arrogant I will happily accept," Legolas murmured, "but I would take exception to the latter."

"Although one can say these are not mutually exclusive," Glorfindel pointed out. "And an elf can be both at the same time. I personally do not mind. Arrogant I can admit to, same as you. But if the converse of naivete is cynicism and a person can only be one or the other, then I would rather live with naivete. I prefer possibility and hope."

The prince pressed at the bridge of his nose, and Glorfindel gave him a moment for it was fair to have a headache when suffering all at once from lingering injury, a hangover, an interrogation, and a damned grammar lesson.

"Is 'death before capture' an official military policy?" Glorfindel asked after a long pause.

"It is common practice," Legolas said, "not codified. But you will find no soldier here who does not subscribe to it."

"Does it apply to the Elvenking?"

Legolas looked at him thoughtfully. "I think I have an understanding of what you are getting at, my lord. You want to know if we have exceptions. You want to know if what had been done to Nestadis would have been done to my father or to me, if we had been the ones captured. You want to know if we exercise fairness."

Glorfindel opened his hands out earnestly, and waited for a reply.

Legolas closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "Unless the situation were so dire, the Elvenking does not venture out. While he is..."

A ghost of s smile danced at his lips over some kind of private joke he took pleasure on, which Glorfindel did not know him well enough to understand.

"While he is _one of _our top warriors, he is too valuable to us to risk death or capture," he continued. "In some ways, 'Elvenking' is a status earned here. The Sindarin elves are minorities to a majority Silvan population. We are the new transplants to an old land and an old people, who keep old memories. We all know our place. They will follow us, but they will not suffer leaders who do not serve. Oropher had proven himself and they were with him to the bitter end. His presumed heir, the prince my father, earned his right after Oropher died and Thranduil took the reins in the battles that followed and the daily survival we've since managed to do accomplish here. _Aran-nin_ is too valuable now, both in the information he knows and the strategic wisdom he can employ for the future. But perhaps also because we've been beheaded before and we refuse to be so again – there is much historical and collective pain in that, for a people. Thus, though Thranduil is mighty peeved about it all, the daily skirmishes he knows he must sit out. His capture and what we need to do on such an occasion, therefore, are things we have not been forced to ponder. Thank the gods."

"Were you told – I knew your grandfather."

"I assumed so." The prince hesitated, but then asked, almost reverently: "What was he like?"

"Incandescent," Glorfindel said, sincerely. Oropher had made mistakes, but he did the best he could the best way he knew how. Legolas said his people followed their first Elvenking to the bitter end, but Glorfindel had seen it himself. He was there. Oropher was unquenchable roaring fire. He scorched the earth he walked on, ignited hearts and minds. If Thranduil was the defiant sunset and Legolas the unstoppable dawn, Oropher was plainly, the sun. When he died, he did so like the great stars – consuming itself in a world-shaking destruction, bringing many with him.

"That is what they say," Legolas murmured.

"By your logic," Glorfindel said after a moment, "if the Elvenking is kept in the stronghold because he is too valuable, is the converse true? That you, a prince who by duty is out fighting often, considered dispensable?"

The wood-elf found it funny, inexplicably. His eyes lit up in an edged mischief, but he kept his reply even.

"I am sent out precisely because I am indispensable. Consider the political cachet _aran-nin_ gets out of sending his own son out to slaughter. With me on the field, he can command anyone into lethal danger. But also – imagine if you will, my lord, just how good I would have to be at my job, to be allowed all the things that I do without my father losing his mind waiting here."

"You said something about being arrogant..."

"And that I would happily accept it," Legolas told him. "If arrogance comes after experience and earned knowledge, I would take it. I am good at my job, and not many can do the things that I do."

"Like shooting your own kin."

Legolas gave him a steely gaze. "If it comes to that, yes. I have a good eye, a steady hand, and perhaps rarer – the constitution for it. Your soldier did not suffer by my hand, my lord, I promise."

"How did you kill her?"

The wood-elf did not flinch at that, the word "_kill_." It rankled Glorfindel's chains, but he tried to remember also, that this was a young elf who tossed in fevered nightmares and screamed soundlessly when he thought he was alone. As coolly as he played being his people's savior / assassin, it was a burden not borne easily. This served to ease Glorfindel's rarely courted temper.

"I usually prefer arrows," came the answer. "They have efficiency and do not make too bad of a mess, and the shafts are obviously easily replaceable once lost. I felt the need to resort to the knife in this case. It was messier I admit, but I threw it with enough force and I had a great shot. Your _elleth_ is a much smaller target than an _ellon_, you see. I needed to make sure her road to Mandos would be quick."

"How many have you killed by now?"

The wood-elf – tellingly – blinked, but just shrugged. "Many. Enough that the armorers know to keep a good cast of my knives to forge replacements, and have either perfected the procedure to quickness, or do not tell me but they now keep stores in case I lose another to killing. There will be many more in the future, I think. A lot of my soldiers have extracted this promise from me: death before capture, and a quick, merciful one."

"And have you extracted this same promise from others?"

"I've certainly tried," Legolas replied dryly.

"They do not accede?"

"I do not believe them," the wood-elf admitted. "Ah, but who would want to explain a prince's mercy killing to the Elvenking? Fortunately, I have my own contingencies."

Glorfindel narrowed his eyes at the younger elf in puzzlement.

"Poisoned seeds," Legolas said, almost proudly. "Sewn into my sleeves for ready access. You see – I do not deal in death I am unwilling to take for myself."

The 'interrogation' ended shortly afterwards, when the healers ushered a weary Glorfindel off for rest in his own bed, and the wood-elf prince rose from his own after a serving of _miruvor_.

He was off to work again.

**# # #**

Istor, Glorfindel's second-in-command, was allowed access to him that very afternoon. The two Imladris elves were even served a lavish lunch in the royal healing suite. Istor was escorted into the suite by the chief healer, Lord Maenor, and an elf named Galion, who had introduced himself as Thranduil's chief-of-staff.

"It is good to see you on the mend, my Lord Glorfindel," Istor said earnestly. He seemed anxious, but refrained from saying anything too revealing while they were in the company of strangers.

Maenor helped Glorfindel into a sitting position, while servers bustled around to prepare a meal setting – a tray on the bed for Glorfindel, and a seat and a small table for his guest.

"You likely have much to discuss," said Galion to their guests, "and you will be accorded privacy to speak openly as you need to. We shall leave you be after discussing some pertinent business. First: Lord Maenor is at your disposal regarding any inquiries about Lord Glorfindel's health."

Maenor gave them a briefing in the ancient warlord's litany of injuries, but focused on the most serious one. "As you know it is the stomach wound that has given us the most trouble. First we had to weather severe blood loss, and then repair the damages to the organs to restore proper functions. But while the body may be structurally repaired – holes plugged and tears stitched and all the parts in their proper places, so to speak – complications to the balance and humors of your system was practically a given due to the severity of your injuries.

"The infection caused by your ruptured innards you already know of," Maenor continued. "but the severe blood loss also disrupted your breathing and your heart. The volume lost should have also addled your thinking, but not having known you before, I cannot be the proper judge of that."

Again, Glorfindel wondered - had that been a joke? And he marveled at these crazed wood-elves anew.

"There will be residual weakness," Maenor finished, a prognosis that made Glorfindel wince. "Months of healing and you may still not find yourself as you were. Short, supervised walks are the only allowed prescription for movement at the moment. I will also require you to stay in our healing halls a while, for further observation and regular maintenance of the wound. But you may leave for assisted indoor excursions within the stronghold, and your visitors will no longer be limited. Do you have any questions?"

"I thank you for your attention, my lord," Glorfindel told him earnestly. "I have every confidence you know the best course of action."

"It will take time but you will survive," Maenor said before adding, dryly – "At least – survive about as well and as long as all the rest of us in this day and age, I suppose."

Galion rolled his eyes at the morbid editorial; it was a move Glorfindel had also seen in Thranduil, and apparently an infectious one around here.

"Onto matters of protocol," Galion said. "You will have treatment in accordance with your noble rank. You will stay here in the Elvenking's own place in the healing halls until you are well enough to move to the residence. Once there, you will be given chambers in the royal wing befitting a visiting dignitary. A bath will be drawn for you every morning, and attendants provided at your disposal."

"I am grateful for the Elvenking's generosity," Glorfindel said gravely, "But I have no need for assistance, and I prefer to be in the company of my own men. I was informed they have been given proper soldierly quarters, and I will be most content with that."

Istor nodded enthusiastically; they have been apart from their commander long enough.

But Galion blinked at him and only repeated – "You will be given chambers in the royal wing befitting a visiting dignitary."

Glorfindel's mouth quirked, sardonically amused by such enforced courtesies. "I am _awed_ by the Elvenking's generosity."

Maenor snorted.

Galion duly ignored them both and went on. "Foreigners are not usually permitted weaponry in the presence of the Elvenking. But out of courtesy you will be allowed not only to carry your own upon your person, but the same courtesy will be allowed to two armed escort of your own men, if you desire for them."

Glorfindel perked up at the thought of familiar company. "I so desire."

"I will make arrangements on a rotation," Istor said with a sharp nod.

"Once you are well enough for discharge from the healing halls," Galion continued, "arrangements will be made for the intelligence exchange and diplomatic relations you had come here to initiate. You will also have leave to come and go to any area of the stronghold unless otherwise stated. Morning and noon meals will be available in the common dining hall for you to avail of at your leisure. But your presence is requested – " Glorfindel knew it was a euphemism for _required _ \- "most every evening for dinner with the Elvenking."

"That is most kind of him," Glorfindel murmured.

Galion nodded gravely in profound and _loyal_ agreement, before continuing:

"The Elvenking also requests that in your conference with your soldiers, create an inventory of your needs while you are here and in preparation for your departure. It is his understanding that many things may have been lost in the battle of your arrival. Weaponry, horses, clothes, medicine and any other supply that is needed, we are able to arrange for."

Glorfindel nodded in gratitude, while Galion paused and took a deep breath. He glanced at the occupants of the room, and held his tongue until the attendants who had prepared Glorfindel and Istor's food finished with their tasks. He gave them a nod to signify they could leave, and they left with small bows to the Lords Glorfindel and Maenor.

"All of the Wood-elves join _aran-nin_ and _ernil-nin_ in condolences for your fallen soldier Nestadis," he said gravely, and both he and Maenor did identical gestures of respect and prayer in near unison. "Your soldier was honored and mourned with others we have recently lost, in accordance with our customs. But you are likely to have customs of your own. Speak of it amongst yourselves, and I will be available anytime, to help you make the proper arrangements."

Istor's jaw clenched, and Glorfindel gave him a warning look not to say anything antagonistic.

"We will certainly need your help with that soon," Glorfindel murmured. "We are grateful for your realm's outsize hospitality."

Galion nodded. "We need your cooperation in one particular matter however."

Glorfindel's brows rose. "What could we have that the Elvenking needs?"

"You are aware of the circumstances of Nestadis' death," Galion said. "She was killed in mercy by the very hand of _ernil-nin _himself. We - and especially he – does not take such a killing lightly."

"I should hope not," Istor growled.

Galion and the affable-until-now Maenor both gave him a hard stare, before turning their attention back to Glorfindel.

"We conduct a private ceremony wherein those that have claim to the dead – a wife or husband, a child, a parent, a sibling and so on – is given the opportunity to demand satisfaction from his or her killer."

"A duel?" Glorfindel asked, surprised. "Those who mourn can duel Legolas?"

"Technically they could," Galion replied. "But _ernil-nin_ will never fight them back, and our people have never had cause or desire to harm him for whatever he has done. He... everyone knows he castigates himself enough."

He cleared his throat, and shifted uneasily and hastily covered up his slip into the more personal. Galion continued with the business at hand.

"What usually happens is," Galion said, "the killer is presented for judgment before the Elvenking and his council. The Elvenking gives him a chance to account for the events that had led to the killing, and then gives the mourners their chance to extract their pound of flesh from him, so to speak. Legolas gives them his knife, and one of them cuts him, and it is symbolic satisfaction enough."

Glorfindel took a deep, steadying breath. "Is it considered a crime, then? The mercy-killing?"

"You mistake the ceremony for punishment," Galion said. "But it is not. Some look at it as forgiveness, others look at it as a restoration of balance."

"It is self-punishment," Glorfindel said flatly, deducing now that Legolas was likely an all-too willing participant in his own cutting. Galion did not disagree, but said nothing of the astute observation.

"Who has claim upon Nestadis in your company?" Galion asked instead. "It is better that the ceremony is conducted sooner rather than later. Before..."

_Before your prince loses his mind_, Glorfindel filled in, remembering Legolas' silent screaming.

"Before _ernil-nin_ is recovered enough to be deployed outside the stronghold," Galion finished.

"Her family is in Imladris," said Istor bitterly. "She is affianced, but he is also not here. It would have to be her commanding officer."

Glorfindel knew it too – he would be the one to bring a knife to that poor young elf's well-torn flesh, all while the Elvenking his _adar _watched, powerless to do anything about it all.

For all the trappings they had in the Woodland Realm, it was increasingly clear to Glorfindel that the two miserable royals were both the kingdom's highest-ranking nobles and also their lowliest, most wrung-out servants.

**# # #**

The arrangements were promptly made; Glorfindel was in no mood to prolong the inevitable.

The next time he saw the elven Prince was in the Elvenking's throne room. The high, intricate seat was unoccupied, and Thranduil stood amongst his councilmen on the main floor.

To his left, Legolas stood in his simple, soldierly clothes of well-worn brown and green. On the opposite way and facing him on Thranduil's right, was the entire company of Imladris soldiers who had traveled from their home to the Woodland Realm on the mission with Glorfindel.

Thranduil opened the ceremony with a few words to honor the fallen soldier Nestadis, and then gave his son the floor to account for the events that had led to her death by his hand.

The prince conveyed the same story he had given to Glorfindel the day prior, and delivered it succinctly and emotionlessly. He looked at Glorfindel and his soldiers in the eye and spoke clearly and objectively. The earnestness came only at the end –

"I am truly sorry for your loss," he said. "I felt it was necessary, and have accounted for the reasons why. But if you feel differently, I subject myself to your judgment and mercy."

"He who has claim to the dead may come forward and extract satisfaction," Thranduil told Glorfindel and his party.

The ancient warlord walked away from his people and toward Legolas as their designated representative.

The elf-prince watched Glorfindel approach, glacial eyes unreadable. They had differed in opinion on the course of action for Nestadis, when they discussed this last. Legolas felt she needed to die to spare her from torture and defilement, and to spare his people from a deadly, fruitless later rescue. Glorfindel on the other hand, felt she deserved a chance at survival.

Legolas must have wondered how that difference in opinion would affect the kind of satisfaction Glorfindel would demand here. He drew out one of his slim white knives, lowered his head in humility, and offered it to Glorfindel hilt-first.

Glorfindel took it.

His hands freed, Legolas then loosened the laces of his tunic and undershirts, and exposed the flesh on his left shoulder and over his heart – opening himself for a killing blow. But he also rolled up the sleeves of his shirts at the right forearm, opening himself up for a more minor cut.

Glorfindel glanced down at the arm. It was liberally lined by small, fine, irregular scars – some shorter than others, some deeper, some straighter, some clumsier. One was particularly jagged and deep. They were committed by different hands, with different levels of skill and feeling. Some of them looked like they were made by children.

_How many have you killed by now_, Glorfindel had once asked Legolas, who at the time gave no answer, even if it was written indelibly on his flesh.

Glorfindel took Legolas' forearm in his left hand to still it. And with his armed right one, he lowered his borrowed knife to the prince's skin.

Glorfindel gave him a cut so skilled and held by a hand so deft and controlled that all it caused was a bead of blood, and a wound that would be completely gone by the morrow. There will be no scarring, and furthermore, he closed his eyes and imparted the younger elf with warmth and light, and he imagined the wounds of the past knitting and fading –

Legolas growled at him, low and dangerous, a sound meant for just the two of them. Glorfindel opened his eyes, and saw fire and brimstone on what should have been the icy depths of the other's gaze. His interference was unwelcome, and he knew then that Legolas would have pulled away, if they had no witnesses.

Glorfindel pursued the healing no further, but kept his own cut small and started to pull away.

Legolas gripped him tightly, unwilling to be released so lightly.

Glorfindel resisted a fraction – he too, did not want to create a scene - but Legolas held him all the more forcefully, pulling him close. The prince's eyes implored and then demanded: _Cut me_.

Glorfindel met Legolas' gaze steadfastly.

_I will not do it_, he hoped to make clear.

"It is undeserved," Glorfindel murmured to him in a breath only he would have heard, in their proximity.

"It is needed," Legolas growled.

Glorfindel would not be moved to punish this soldier, who tended to give so much and yet punish himself severely. They stared at each other.

Glorfindel watched the other elf's gaze shift in a myriad of emotions – anger that his will was defied, need, indignation over Glofindel's pity, desire for atonement, need, imploring for reconsideration, need, need, need...

Legolas visibly gathered himself, and only then did Glorfindel step away. He gave the prince a small bow, and returned his knife to him the same way it had been given, hilt-first.

"And so it is settled," Thranduil declared, "and no line divides the doer from the mourner, and we can all grieve our dead as brothers in shared loss."

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	5. A Good Day

_**hello everyone!**_

_**Just a quick note of thanks to all who are still with me on this - especially our kind reviewers**. Each note you send my way is treasured, and responses are coming as soin as I find a bit of breathing space from RL. But for now, let me just say I appreciate you taking the time to share your insights and encouragement and, let me express my gratitude the best way I know how: a new chapter :) Have a great week, everyone, and C&C's are always welcome. Without further ado:_

# # #

**5: A Good Day**

# # #

_Mirkwood, T.A. 2851_

# # #

The days melded together.

Lengthy convalescence, as Glorfindel knew from brutal firsthand experience, tended to have only few states: boredom, pain and sleeping, with small flashes of light in between.

The boredom came from the rest he was pressed into, both by the healers of the Mirkwood, and by his own Rivendell soldiers who had been initially horrified at the first sight of him.

"To bed, Lord Glorfindel," they all said at some point, _ad infinitum, ad nauseum_. But no one contested his outside excursion when the Imladris elves held a small ceremony to mourn Nestadis. The wood-elves gave them use of a small hall for dedications and honoring, and the Kingdom's unobtrusive servants prepared them a comforting meal. The Elvenking had even sent over servings of the rarest Dor-winion, though Glorfindel had not been allowed to partake of it.

Mostly he remained in the confines of the healing halls. Because he was a visitor in this land, he couldn't even occupy himself with administrative "desk" duties as he would have, had he been convalescing in Imladris instead.

The pain on the other hand, came whenever he needed to rise to relieve himself, and from the healers' periodic tending. They would check on his alertness, his eyes, his heart, his breathing, and appraise his range of movements. They would check on the progress of his wounds, removing soiled bandages then cleaning and re-bandaging them. These activities left him tired and breathless, which was just as well because they reserved the worst treatment for last: his damned gut wound, which the chief healer Lord Maenor, never delegated to anyone else.

Exhausted by the previous treatments, all Glorfindel could do was hiss and watch blearily while the skilled but sardonic Maenor removed the bandage from his belly and did what ever the heck he wanted with the injury beneath it. The exposure to the air left Glorfindel's nerves raw, and he would tremble until Maenor slathered the healing wound with a locally-numbing herb. It kept pain at bay, but not discomfort. There was simply something unnatural about someone digging around one's insides.

With a slim, gleaming pincer, the healer would draw out the impossibly long strand of clean linen that the gut wound had been packed with. Glorfindel could feel it being drawn out of the hole in his stomach, and he felt dizzyingly, disgustingly hollow, even before he smelled blood and pus and all manner of bodily fluid the linen dragged out with it. But at least Maenor tended to be pleased about his progress.

"You are healing very well, my lord," or some similar declaration, he would say cheerfully, before promptly grabbing a fresh set of linen to pack the wound with again. They did the same things over and over, across innumerable, miserable days.

The healers' visits would usually be followed by an irritatingly exhausted slumber, and it was only at lunchtime that Glorfindel's day really began.

Salve came in the form of a rotation of his comrades, two of which were almost always within reach, armed and in his company. They took him on his permitted walks, exchanged observations and insights on their next course of action, and assembled their inventory of needs for submission to the Elvenking.

At night, Glorfindel would dismiss his men for rest – he felt no need to he guarded, only the need for company and some semblance of productivity. In the quiet, lonely hours whenever he was tired but restless, he would walk around the royal suite of his confinement, do mild exercises and maintain his recovered armor and weaponry.

On one such night, while stretching his legs and walking carefully about the expansive space, Glorfindel chanced upon a prized cache beneath the bed usually reserved for Legolas Thranduilion (whom he has not seen since he cut him in the King's Hall): books.

There was a box of small books in unglamorous soldier's issue, the kind that could be pocketed and brought along on the road. His heart soared at his discovery, and he snatched three at random and took them to read in his own bed.

He had missed the written word, he realized, and his eyes raked hungrily through page after page of psalms and songs, of language and folktales, and tomes on flora and fauna and references on field medicine. The history books of the life he'd once lived and the beings he'd once known... these he astutely ignored.

**# # #**

Relative freedom came to Glorfindel at last, when Maenor removed the packing from his wound, sealed the last hole shut, and told him he could be released from the healing halls in three days if the stitches held and this phase of the recovery progressed well.

Glorfindel did not chance even his mild exercises, such that by the third day, Maenor examined him and gave him leave to move out of the healing halls at last.

Maenor proclaimed him freed in the mid-day, and while Glorfindel's men packed the few personal effects his weeks of stay at the healing hall somehow accumulated, the healer gave the ancient warlord the same "Responsible Patient Protocol" he had given the errant Legolas (who was still nowhere to be seen).

"I will do everything you say, my lord," Glorfindel said cheerfully, even if he was only half-listening. He was eager for the world beyond the healing halls, and even more eager to move forward with the purpose he had set out to do here.

He had a natural curiosity and a gift for observation, and already there were things about Thranduil's kingdom that he longed to dissect. He was so hungry for information and activity that he was even looking forward to dining with the Elvenking that night.

**# # #**

Glorfindel was given well-appointed, spacious guest quarters in the restricted hallways of the royal residence, where guards stood on watch at the mouth of the forbidden corridors.

Galion led him through the winding ways before stopping at the guest room doors. These the loyal attendant unlocked and opened with a flourish, showing off a sitting room, an office, and linked bathing and sleeping chambers that would do very well indeed for any visiting dignitary.

"Your soldiers may stay to help you settle in," Galion said, "and you are permitted guards and visitors within these quarters. But no soldiers at the door and the halls, _hir-nin_, only the Elvenking is allowed that and even then he often excuses them. The entrance to the hallway is well-guarded enough at any rate. You have nothing to fear here."

"Not even from you?" Istor asked, irreverently.

"Thank you," Glorfindel said quickly, while giving his second-in-command a wry look. "This will do very well. Thank your king."

"You will have ample opportunity at dinner tonight," said Galion as he handed Istor the keys to his commander's quarters. "You may choose to lock your doors or not; these are the only keys to your chambers. I give them to you according as my king bids, for your privacy and peace of mind. Though speaking for the household I assure you – our people will respect your effects and treat this space as your territory while you are here."

"We have every confidence," said Glorfindel. "Thank you."

Before leaving, Galion said, "I will return you later to escort you to _aran-nin_'s chambers."

Two of Glorfindel's soldiers then set to unpacking his personal effects about his new "home," while Istor (and Glorfindel's weary body) prevailed upon him to rest. He begrudgingly conceded the walk from the healing halls to the residence had wrung him out. Thranduil's caverns were labyrinthine.

"Remember," Istor said, as he escorted Glorfindel to his bed, "You will be sharing a meal with King Thranduil tonight. You will need to be on your toes."

**# # #**

Glorfindel was used to large, formal households and knew to dress for dinner. One of his men acted as valet and helped him into one of the handful of sets of formal wear he had brought with him and that had thankfully been recovered.

This evening he left behind his sword as diplomatic courtesy to the Elvenking, even if he had been explicitly allowed to bring them everywhere. Thranduil, scion of a powerful House and well-versed in courtly mores, was bound to notice. Glorfindel hoped it would go some way toward making the Elvenking a bit more mentally disarmed toward Glorfindel too.

Glorfindel dismissed his two guards for the night and was fetched by Galion from his rooms as promised. He followed the loyal chief-of-staff on a blessedly short walk to Thranduil's guarded private chambers a few doors down from his own.

"Lord Glorfindel," Galion announced to two guards stationed at Thranduil's doors that night, who then repeated it to the Elvenking within. The doors were opened and Galion ushered Glorfindel in but did not follow himself.

The ancient warlord stepped into the anteroom, and the doors closed behind him. The Elvenkimg's chambers, he noted, essentially had the same parts as his own: a sitting room, an office, and sleeping and bathing chambers. But they were much bigger – the sitting room had more space to accommodate councilors and petitioners, and had a dining area and a small kitchen adjacent with a considerably well-stocked alcohol cabinet. The office had a library and was organized but well-used, the desk strewn with papers and maps. The bathing and sleeping chambers were closed, but presumably was also more expansive in scale.

"Come in, my lord!" Thranduil called out, and he emerged from his office at the same time that Glorfindel stepped into the dining area. There were no servants about, and the table was already lavishly set. Glorfindel was surprised that he and the King were to serve themselves, but he welcomed the opportunity to have privacy and be candid.

"You are looking very well," Thranduil told him. "Much less ghastly than when I saw you last."

"The Elvenking's healers have impeccable skills," Glorfindel said. "We are all grateful for your generous treatment."

"Please," Thranduil motioned toward the seats on the table, "Help yourself. We will not stand on ceremony here."

He left the doors to his office open, and Glorfindel could not help a quick glance at the maps. Thranduil gave him a wry look.

"It is a force of habit," Glorfindel said by way of an excuse. "You do not seem to mind, though."

"What you see there will be tactically useless by the time you leave here," Thranduil said mildly. "The situation changes frequently."

"What do the colors and lines represent?" Glorfindel asked, of some of the many complex marks marring the map. He had an inkling of course; he was versed with strategy himself, but he wanted to know what it meant to the people here.

"The green areas bordered in solid lines are impenetrable elven territory," Thranduil replied, as he led the way to the table with a setting for three. Glorfindel lingered by the office doors as his host explained further.

"These constitute the stronghold, our primary water source, and a footpath through the forest which we have by necessity forged for ourselves after the loss of the older roads. We keep a perimeter around them, through regularly-spaced _telain_ outposts. All are under constant surveillance."

"So this is an area firmly in your control," Glorfindel said.

Thranduil nodded and went on, "Beyond that is a space of pale yellow, bordered by broken lines. These are areas of influence – guarded not by fixed outposts but by regular patrols. These territories are of course, more porous. Beyond that in pale red are contested territory, where the fighting can be fierce. The farther south you move, the less control we have."

And then there was a stark red line above Dol Guldur, neither elf bothered to mention, a line which Glorfindel was certain the Mirkwood elves were not allowed to cross. There were also markings of spiderwebs, even in areas that were supposed to be within the elves' spheres of control and influence.

They walked to the dining area where there was a setting for three. The Elvenking was to be at the head of the table of course, and there was one setting to his right and another to his left. Glorfindel knew the one to the right likely belonged to the Prince Legolas and moved to sit to the one on Thranduil's left. Out of habit, he waited for Thranduil to sit before he followed suit.

"That accursed map is one of the reasons why my son is so indispensable on the field," Thranduil said. "He can make decisions with my very voice – especially when we have to give ground."

"Give ground?"

"Silvan soldiers will die for their king before retreat," Thranduil said. "Our history has shown this painfully well. Legolas tells them when they do not have to. Lost land we can always reclaim later, lost people – not quite. He has a talent for determining the proper course of action to find victory in unfathomable odds, or to maximize survival in impossible situations."

The Elvenking noticed Glorfindel was not touching the food.

"We need not wait on Legolas," Thranduil said, reaching for a carafe of wine and offering some to Glorfindel. The ancient warlord received some into his goblet with two hands out of respect, but knew he should not partake too much of it. Thranduil then filled his own, and took a hearty sip.

"And where might the prince be this night?" Glorfindel asked.

Thranduil's eyes glinted in appreciation. "Already gathering more intelligence information, aren't we, my lord? Ah, I can hardly blame you, I offered opportunity and you gave a most excellent segue. It is such a simple question, and yet the information would be revealing, wouldn't it?"

It was true, and Glorfindel did not bother to deny it. An answer to his question would indicate to Glorfindel many things, including which part of the forest was so contested it demanded the skills of its most gifted warrior and the decisions of an elf who represented the Elvenking. An answer would also be indicative of the father and son's relationship to each other, and Thranduil's risk profile. The Elvenking had already lost his father, was he also willing to lose his son?

_And his motherless only child too_, Glorfindel reflected, based on how things looked for he could only surmise. News from the Woodland had been few and far between on top of being unverifiable.

Glorfindel looked at the long table. He thought then, that it wasn't just large because Thranduil was a king and likely had many visitors. There were function halls for that. The space here, in the Elvenking's most private of quarters... it was meant to accommodate a _family_.

It was a jarring thought, and Glorfindel wondered if Thranduil has – or had? – other children, and whatever had become of the wife. He would find out, he thought, but not yet. There was good will to build, first.

"It would be revealing," Glorfindel conceded. "But it could also just be a question."

Thranduil looked at him wryly. "Then you will get an answer, one of many that are true. The Prince will come when he comes. You know these young soldiers – the only sacred time is the one kept by the military. The commanding officer says 'Come!' and he is there. The parent, on the other hand, waits."

"Even the king?"

"I am not one here," Thranduil said, "Nor would I suffer to be so."

"Then who receives me now, if not the Elvenking?"

"A curious wood-elf," Thranduil replied easily, and Glorfindel is reminded to be on his toes. Thranduil will give only as much as he gets.

"Tell me my lord," Thranduil said, deceptively leaning back leisurely in his chair while regarding Glorfindel with a sharp gaze. "Are you an emissary for the gods?"

"By my body yes," Glorfindel answered cautiously. "I was resurrected and sent back in service to this world. But I have limited understanding of the minutiae of their plans. It would defy our comprehension, I think – all the love and design they have for our world."

"A most convenient excuse," Thranduil said, with no real heat. But his eyes were sparkling dangerously. "Now tell me this – what makes your life more worthy of resurrection than my dead?"

Glorfindel was spared from having to answer by the sudden declaration of the arrival of Legolas Thranduilion. The Elvenking may have planned it, if he had heard or felt his son's approach from the hall. He did not look as if he was irked by the absence of an opportunity to hear Glorfindel's response.

Legolas was allowed in and then the doors were closed promptly behind him. His hair was loose but still wet; it moistened the formal robes at his mid-chest, where the burnished gold tips ended. He had a bruise marring half his face and his eye there had splotches of red, but he seemed otherwise well, when he issued his father and then their guest a brief bow before taking the seat on Thranduil's righthand side.

"Good evening, father," he said to Thranduil, who handed him a filled goblet of wine. With his left hand he snatched it from the Elvenking's hand with casual irreverence and took a hearty sip before lowering it to the table and using the same hand to reach for a slice of bread.

Around a full mouth he said to their guest, "It is good to see you on your feet, Lord Glorfindel."

"And you on yours, _ernil-nin_," the other returned, wryly.

One side of Legolas' lips quirked in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it smile, but Glorfindel did not tend to miss much – including the fact that Legolas was not using his right arm.

"You're in fine spirits," Thranduil remarked to his son.

Legolas gave him a full, bright grin then. "We had a good day, _adar_. No one gut hurt."

Half his face was purpling blue black, there was blood in his eye, he had the use of only one hand, and the gods knew what else he might have been hiding beneath his clothes. Yet without irony he said, _No one got hurt_.

He said it was a good day, and Glorfindel's heart ached for the people here.

**# # #**

The Dor-winion was good.

Glorfindel knew, for he had more of it than he should have.

Because the Dor-winion was a weapon. Thranduil knew Glorfindel was bound by courtesy not to decline the Elvenking's service, and so the reserved sips he kept to accumulated, just as Glorfindel's walls gradually diminished.

By the amused expression on Legolas' face while he watched the two mighty golden elves spar mentally over dinner, he understood exactly what was going on. He wisely kept quiet and his head low.

It was time to change tactics, Glorfindel decided. He needed to regain some footing in this dance, and realized he had Thranduil's token vulnerability before him.

"Do your duties require you to go out and fight everyday, Prince Legolas?" he inquired.

"When able yes," Legolas replied cautiously. "Don't yours?"

"Incursions into Imladris and its surroundings are uncommon," Glorfindel replied, "What battles I've recently fought are in skirmishes on journeys headed to or from Rivendell, rather than within the bounds of Rivendell itself. We also embark on the occasional hunt when there is orcish presence detected or reported. Otherwise I am on duties of a more administrative nature as of late."

"Their Valley is _Hidden_, Legolas," Thranduil said, but it was less to explain to his well-educated son who certainly knew it. It was said more to mock Glorfindel and Elrond for their safety.

"And enchanted besides," Thranduil added. "They have healing there, and song and light and magic and wisdom, and all manner of indulgences and idle time."

"You cannot ridicule us our peace and prosperity when you do not seek our aid," Glorfindel pointed out. "And when we offer it, you spurn it and belittle us."

Thranduil conceded the point with a with a dangerous glint in his eye but a casual wave of his graceful hand. "You can do nothing for us."

"I can tell you who is suspected of dwelling in your dark South," Glorfindel said.

"So many equivocations in one sentence," Thranduil commented. "You _can_ tell me. You _suspect _because you do not know. Speak plainly, if you are capable."

"Mithrandir believes the Necromancer dwelling in Dol Guldur is Sauron himself regaining strength," Glorfindel shared.

Thranduil shrugged. "Wizards will do and say whatever they do and say. Everyone else is left to scramble on their own or get quashed in the middle of their plans. I can only fight that which is before me." He paused in thought. "You do not speak of The White Council as unanimous in this belief."

"It is headed by Saruman, who is of a different mind."

Thranduil's eyes lit up. "Ah, well. And so you are here to make your own determinations. It is almost funny, is it not, that for all the power and wisdom held by that vaunted council of yours, you have about as much knowledge as me, and we can all only survive to the extent of our immediate information." He scoffed. "And you ask why we do not involve ourselves in your bickering."

"But surely you do not believe your situation is sustainable," Glorfindel pointed out. "You move ever northwards. Your forest grows darker. How much farther can you go? How much darker can it get? How much can you take and still survive? Something must change. Surely there is more to life than endurance."

"There is no life to live without first enduring," Thranduil said mildly. "As long as we survive, everything else we can weather."

There was more Glorfindel wished to say, but it was only their first dinner and he did not want to wear out his welcome too quickly. He glanced at the Woodland Prince, who was watching the exchange between Thranduil and Glorfindel with quiet, perverse glee that he could not hide from his shining, intelligent eyes. He'd been quiet and keeping his head low, perhaps wisely hoping he would be forgotten by the two titanic personalities before him. He rubbed at his right shoulder absently as he watched them talk.

"And what do you think?" Glorfindel asked the prince.

He knew how Legolas stood about engaging with the world beyond the Woodland. The Prince had told him before, he did not share his father the King's perspective that their situation, difficult and lethal as it often is, had any form of stability. The enemy was gaining strength; escalation was inevitable and consequently, outside coordination would be necessary.

What Glorfindel did not know, was if Thranduil knew his son's politics did not align with his own. He watched Thranduil look at his only child with studied impassivity.

"Whether or not we welcome outside interference is immaterial at the moment," Legolas said carefully, "It is upon us. We have all paid handsomely for this interaction already, and so we may as well take advantage of its more promising possibilities."

Thranduil's lip quirked, a mirror of his son's tight, blink-and-you'll-miss-it smile.

"Well," proclaimed the Elvenking, "We are after all, nothing but pragmatic around here. I am heartened you feel this way, Captain. For the Lord Glorfindel seeks to understand our existence here and I have decided you can take him in hand for the next month or so."

"I am needed at the lines, _adar_."

"Not with that shoulder you are not," Thranduil said, and to the younger elf's petulant stare he added, "I am not blind."

"I go out with far worse than this."

"When necessary," Thranduil snapped, "and when you have no other duties here. In this case – by providence your king is in need of your diplomacy at the same time your body is in need of recovery. As someone or other just said – '_we may as well take advantage of promising possibilities_.'"

"Then I will do my best," Legolas said, through grit teeth.

**# # #**

Dinner ended soon afterwards, and Legolas and Glorfindel exited the Elvenking's chambers together.

In accordance with his father's instructions, Legolas dismissed the guards at Thranduil's doors for the night, and proceeded with escorting Glorfindel back to his guest quarters.

"I remember the way, _ernil_," Glorfindel said. "You need not bother."

"While I am certain that is the case," Legolas said lightly, "we cannot have you traipsing around here alone at night, can we? And it was after all, by the Elvenking's express orders."

"Ah, and one follows them all the time clearly," Glorfindel, encouraged by the other's lightness, chanced a joke.

Legolas huffed out a laugh, and rubbed at his right shoulder again. "Years of practice and one learns the easy orders are not worthy of defiance. Your chambers are a stone's throw away from my own. It is no bother."

"What happened to the shoulder?" Glorfindel asked.

The Woodland Prince lowered his hand immediately. "An archer's occupational hazard, I imagine. I am well-used, so it comes and goes. Some days are worse than others, as in all things."

It was interesting, Glorfindel realized, that Legolas thought of himself as an archer first. It was not the most common claim to fame of an elven warrior. A thought crossed his mind and he hesitated at bringing voice to it. But as one of his kin's most decorated warriors and one who has trained many of the younger set, there were other possibilities.

"If there is error in form, muscular or skeletal misuse may also account for your discomfort."

Legolas' lips quirked. "Maybe you can teach me."

"I did not mean to offend," Glorfindel said quickly.

Th elven prince gave the visiting lord an amused, sidelong glance. "I do not offend too easily, _hir-nin_, especially not with regard to warring skills. I will take what you said into honest consideration."

They stopped at Glorfindel's doors.

"This is where I leave you," Legolas said, but he paused and hesitated too. "Seeing as I am to be in charge of your... immersion... here however, I wonder if I might speak with you a moment about your expectations and our scheduling."

"I am available at your leisure," Glorfindel said.

"I have tea in my rooms," Legolas said invitingly.

The Woodland Prince led the way to chambers that looked much like Glorfindel's, indeed but steps from his own guest suite. The layout was the same, even the feel of spartan-ness that went with barely being lived in; its owner was away often.

The office, however, was properly cluttered and fascinating. Where Thranduil's had maps, Legolas' desk and walls had these plus sketches of arrow shafts and arrow heads and strings and bows, and tagged prototypes were strewn on the desk over a bed of cloth. Glorfindel stood at the door and did not even pretend he wasn't looking. He stepped inside, impressed.

"I am the one in need of schooling in archery, I think," he said wryly.

Legolas flashed him a quick, cheeky grin. Bringing Glorfindel here was to teach him a lesson in his assumptions apparently, but Legolas had also been truthful about tea and schedules. He motioned for Glorfindel to sit anywhere he pleased in the office, while he put a kettle over a fireplace he also stoked. Glorfindel sat on a stiff-backed wooden seat by the desk, and looked at the shafts on the table. One of them was a damaged Imladris arrow.

"Recovered from the battle site when we rescued you," Legolas explained. "Very different from ours here. I was curious."

"I will furnish you with one that is perfectly intact," Glorfindel promised. "But what are you trying to do here?"

"When time allows I work closely with the armory on weapons improvements," Legolas answered. "There are so many moving parts in archery, and every little advantage counts." He picked up one arrow for illustration, using his left hand. "We think of the weight and shape for aerodynamics, but we also have to consider military objectives."

"A high-precision, long-range shaft that is too slim or light to significantly damage the enemy is of limited military use, for example," Glorfindel finished.

"Exactly!" exclaimed the other, so enthused by his like-minded guest that he reached for another shaft with his right arm. He hissed, winced and drew his hand back, but barely lost a beat to adjust with his left.

"So we risk some precision and range for effectivity," Legolas continued. He cleared his throat. "A jagged arrowhead for example, will take away from speed because of friction. But if it hits the enemy and is bound by say, dried animal matter rather than rope to the shaft..."

He looked hopeful for a continuation and Glorfindel did not let him down. "The animal matter dissolves in enemy warmth and flesh, the barbed arrowhead separates from the shaft, and the hit is both more damaging and difficult to remove."

Legolas beamed, and lowered the shafts he held in his left hand and absently started rubbing his right shoulder again.

"But again you have to consider other factors. Heads bound by fragile matter to shafts might not be ideal in all weather. And then they are usually too damaged to reuse once recovered. Of course, all archers worth their aim know how to fill their quivers with materials scavenged from their environment. But the more you can reuse, the better." He coughed once and stifled another. "This is just one direction of our explorations. We look at the make and materials for fletching and arrowheads, we toy with grooves and treatments of shafts..."

He coughed again, which made Glorfindel frown and jerk forward in his seat.

"Drink before you choke on your enthusiasm," he tried to joke. There was a jug of water on the desk, which Legolas had taken from for water to heat. Glorfindel filled a cup of water with its contents and pushed it in the Woodland Prince's direction.

Between coughing, Legolas raised his hand in signal to wait, that all was well. But his hand was shaking when he reached for the cup and took a several sips. After his body calmed, he sat on the chair behind his cluttered desk and smiled at Glorfindel wanly in gratitude.

The ancient warlord favored him with an assessing look and a frown. "You are unwell."

"I am weary," Legolas admitted. "But it comes and goes too. It's the blasted shoulder that is the bigger nuisance at the moment." His voice was breathy, but whether it was from recovering from the coughing fit or from the shoulder or any other pain, Glorfindel did not know.

"It is unnatural. You should be seen to."

"Not for something inconsequential," Legolas murmured distractedly, his attention grabbed by something he saw in his work. "The healers are overworked. For minor scrapes, one must be tended in the home."

Where soldiers in leave were expected to rest, Glorfindel thought. But that was not the case for a military commander and prince who had a host of other duties. Home was where soldiers on leave were also expected to be observed and aided by family. But when one's only family was the perennially occupied Elvenking - one had to lick one's wounds alone. Glorfindel's heart stung.

Oblivious, Legolas' eyes lit up and he picked up several sticks that looked like they were in various stages of treating and drying. They came in a range of closely-related colors and states of malleability.

"The possibilities of these intrigue me," he said, stifling another cough. "River cane. They are hollow inside-" he choked off the last word, and his coughing returned in earnest.

Glorfindel had risen from his seat and rounded the desk toward him, even before he heard a hoarse cry of pain from the prince, who then doubled over and started gasping for breath. Glorfindel fell to a knee before Legolas, who folded forwards with one arm wrapped around his chest and the other gripping Glorfindel by the shoulder.

His head was bowed, and he moaned and made strange, strangled sounds that grated on Glorfindel's nerves. Glorfindel lifted the younger elf's face, found it crumpled in agony; eyes tightly shut, mouth gasping at air, getting none. It reminded him, fleetingly, of when Legolas had been screaming without sound. Now he was breathing without air – another pathetic pantomime.

"Help!" Glorfindel yelled out to whomever may listen; the residence guards nearby ought to hear him if they are doing their jobs.

Legolas winced at the sound, and opened one eye and then the other. They were such pools of limpid blue as they settled upon Glorfindel – unclouded, unguarded, undisguised from surface to tortured depths. It jolted his heart.

Glorfindel grabbed him back, by both arms as he started to tilt forward. He led Legolas to a guided fall on the floor; the ailing elf was likely better settled on the ground. Glorfindel suspected chest injury, and was particularly careful with supporting him about the ribs.

"Help!" Glorfindel called out again, even as he arranged the suddenly, alarmingly pliant elf to lie on the ground. He was fighting for every breath it seemed, such that even his shoulders and belly were rising and falling.

Glorfindel's adroit fingers – long well-versed in battlefield medicine and later, the more intricate healing to be found in Imladris – scrambled to open the younger elf's robes and tunic at the chest.

"What hurts, _ernil_?" Glorfindel asked curtly, "No hiding now."

Legolas looked at him with glassy, indignant eyes. "Sh-sh-shoulder."

It made no sense, but he seemed earnest enough and the answer had been consistent. But Glorfindel needed to know more, and he apparently had to find out for himself. He drew out a dagger from his boot, for there were just too damn many layers of clothing on here.

"Help!" he called out one more time, even louder this time. As he slashed at Legolas' clothes he muttered, "For a kingdom of soldiers this is very poor response time-"

He did not get to finish the statement. These _damn_ wood-elves knew how to come quietly, and suddenly he was pried off of Legolas, and he found himself tossed against the wall.

By Thranduil.

**To Be Continued...**


	6. There is a Plan

_**hello everyone!**_

_ The truth is, I hate a cliffhanger as much as the next guy. I am aware it tends to get reviews - and sure enough, my last chapter got the most out of any single chapter so far - but I am a reader too and cliffhangers frustrate me, haha. I thought I could wait but it's not my style. So here's the continuation, and I can only hope you can tell me what you think about it too - C&C's are always welcome here :) Reesponses to reviews will be sent as soon as I am able. In the meantime, thank you for hanging out with me in this latest tale, and I jope you enjoy the read as much as I enjoy writing. Without further ado: _

* * *

# # #

**6: There is a Plan**

# # #

_Mirkwood, T.A. 2851_

# # #

"Drop the knife," The Elvenking commanded, and Glorfindel did just as he was told. He was no fool, he knew how things looked. Thranduil's son was on the ground and a stranger leaned over him with a weapon.

Royal guards suddenly streamed into the room, and Thranduil turned his back on Glorfindel only then. He turned anxiously toward Legolas, whose struggling breaths were loud in the room.

The guards hauled Glorfindel to his feet and he did not bother fighting them off. They were only doing their jobs and hot heads would not help the situation.

Glorfindel said the most important thing first: "Call for a healer, hurry."

"What did you do?" one of the guards asked, shaking the ancient warlord by the arm roughly.

"Nothing!" Glorfindel replied urgently, "Call for a healer. We were speaking and then he could not find his breath. He needs a healer, _now_. If I meant to harm him, why would I call for help? A healer, please..." He interspersed the request with explanations, hoping they would be heeded more quickly.

"It would be faster if we brought him," said Thranduil, who knelt beside Legolas on the floor and started moving as if to pull Legolas to rise or carry him.

"Do not move him!" Glorfindel exclaimed. "I think he is injured inside."

The statement stilled Tharnduil's movements immediately. "Your fastest runner," he said in a clipped tone to the commanding officer of the guardsmen. Even before he conveyed the king's command to his men, one of the guards had already all but vanished from the room.

To the now-drifting Legolas the Elvenking said, "Stay awake, _ion_." The younger elf was barely responsive now, and Thranduil gripped him by the sides of his face. "Legolas," he hissed, "Damn it." He turned toward Glorfindel. "You know what ails him?"

"I might..."

"Step forward then."

The guards released the ancient warlord, who scrambled to work quickly. He tore at the cloths on Legolas' upper body that he had already started with. The skin beneath was so multi-hued it was hard to tell if he was healing from days' or weeks' old bruises or bleeding inside. Glorfindel felt at Legolas' ribs but found none broken. If they were cracked or suffered any less discernable damage, he did not have the nuance of a healer to really know.

He then pressed his ear against the flesh of Legolas' chest and listened, first on one side and then the other. He grimaced at their asymmetry, and pulled away. He pressed a hand beneath Legolas' racing pulse at the neck, and mentally calculated how long it would get that speedy soldier to summon a healer and drag them back here bearing supplies.

_Too long_...

The boiling water over the fireplace bubbled, and the sound in the quiet room nudged Glorfindel into an idea and a decision.

"You," he said to the guards, "I will need my knife washed in that water." They scrambled to do as he bid them.

"Stay _awake_, _ion_!" Thranduil said more urgently, hands now clasped about the gray-skinned prince's slack face. Legolas' soft, glazed gaze was drifting, and his head lolled.

"What ails him?" Thranduil asked Glorfindel in alarm.

"He cannot breathe from fluid pressing over his lungs at the chest," Glorfindel said tersely, "I do not know if it from some illness, or bleeding. I think it is bleeding. I cannot remedy the underlying issue, but I can help him breathe."

_I think. _

_If I remember correctly_...

"Wash the river canes too," Glorfindel told the guards, who looked at him blankly for a long moment. "On the prince's desk, there are, there are these hollow shafts of river cane."

While the guards worked on the cleaning of the tools Glorfindel hoped would be enough, and while Thranduil fruitlessly tried to rouse his son, Glorfindel prepared his subject too. He tore mercilessly at Legolas' clothes until he could shove the strips of material completely away and the prince's torso was bare. He examined the shoulder that had been the main subject of Legolas' complaints, only to find no apparent issue there.

Determining that it was safe to move the now-unconscious elf's arm, Glorfindel raised it over his head, to have complete access to the side of his chest. Glorfindel counted at Legolas' ribs, and checked the space he needed to cut at, which was in line with the nipple. He checked again, and again, and then stopped himself from overthinking things and second-guessing himself before he could lose his nerve.

He grabbed the jug of water from the desk and washed his hands, not caring where the liquid landed. He looked at the doors hoping the healer would miraculously appear before he could do anything, and then at Legolas who was looking almost gone.

"The knife," Glorfindel said to the guards, who handed him the cleaned weapon on a spotless white handkerchief. He glanced at Thranduil one more time, seeking either permission or prohibition.

But the Elvenking's eyes were dark and deep in the firelight. This was a ruler of the finest order, but he was on his knees on the ground and he was... there was no better word for it and Glorfindel tried looking... _begging_.

Glorfindel cut at Legolas' mottled flesh.

He made a small incision at the proper space between the ribs, and then parted flesh and muscle. Trickles of blood drained from the small, carefully made wound.

"The reeds," he said, and the hollow sticks that had been in Legolas' enthusiastic hands but moments ago, were now cleaned on a white cloth and being presented to Glorfindel in a different way. He picked one of the more malleable ones, and then deftly inserted it into the hole he had cut, guiding the beginnings of its path with his fingers and then pushing it in deeper.

He moved the reed in his mind's eye, going by feel and imagination and muscle memory from the times he'd done this for other soldiers before. Once satisfied, he took the end of the reed that was left outside of the prince's body and he sucked on it gently.

Glorfindel could feel everyone's eyes on him, but he did as he felt was right. He sucked at the liquid he felt was oppressing the ailing archer's lungs and keeping them from expanding.

The coopery taste of blood flooded his mouth and he spat it out. He knew he had horrified his audience when the sight of the red liquid elicited gasps from the room, but he went on and on with his work, until he started feeling and hearing results.

Legolas's chest rose higher, and he breathed more productively. After a while, he even started to stir awake.

"He is coming around," Glorfindel said to Thranduil between sips and breaths. "You must keep him still."

It was timely advice, for Legolas jerked almost immediately after, and Thranduil already had his arms about his son's upper body.

Legolas inhaled hungrily, and his body arched from the ground, pressed down only by his father and Glorfindel, who had ceased his treatments for the time being.

"_Ada_," he gasped. "I can't, can't b-breathe..."

"You couldn't," Thranduil said calmly, "Now you can."

The elven prince looked especially young then, breathless and bewildered, his eyes overbright as he suffered his difficulties while struggling to believe what his father said. He exhaled, inhaled, did it all again. He looked around him in confusion, until his eyes settled on Glorfindel.

"Your mouth is bleeding my lord," he said breathily, with worry.

Glorfindel swiped at it then, and looked down at his bloodied hands. His eyes drifted to the ground, where there was more of the blood he had sucked on and spat out.

_So much more_.

Almost unfathomably more, in the small space of time that Glorfindel had removed it breath by breath from the space around Legolas' lungs.

He felt suddenly lightheaded.

The healer arrived then, and Glorfindel backed away and sat leaning against the walls, relieved and exhausted.

**# # #**

Lord Maenor did not want to move Legolas either, and so tended to him where he lay on the bloodied ground.

Glorfindel watched from where he sat a few steps away, and he was surprised when Thranduil – previously ushered aside by the healers – joined him. Their shoulders touched.

Wordlessly, they sat side by side on the ground and looked on as Maenor checked Legolas' pulse, breathing and alertness. The younger elf was trembling with cold and his eyes were closed in exhaustion – blood loss and fighting for every breath was tiring work - but by the tightness with which he held his body, it was apparent he was awake and aware. Maenor also checked upon Glorfindel's handiwork. With whatever calculations he made in his mind, he then approached the Elvenking with a report.

"The Lord Glorfindel's quick thinking had saved _ernil-nin _from peril," Maenor said, putting a hand over his heart in earnest gratitude. "He relieved the weight over the prince's lungs from the blood that had collected in his chest. But that is only the beginning of what must be done."

Thranduil sighed, and looked over at his son. "Go on."

"I need to cut into him and determine the source of the bleeding," Maenor said. "There are many vessels about the area of the chest, which can be torn or even cut through, likely by injury to the ribs. When small these tears close on their own and scar, and if they had ever bled into the chest, these clots are absorbed by the body. In these cases, they barely present with any symptoms and go away on their own. But when the bleeding is significant, they pool at the chest and inhibit proper lung function. I think that is what happened here."

"All that pained him was his shoulder," Glorfindel said. "He felt nothing else."

"He told me nothing about his shoulder when he came in," Maenor winced. "Maybe he did not notice it, hot on the heels of battle as these soldiers often are. Or maybe accustomed to minor injury he thought it was inconsequential. But there is a nerve there, it irritates when there is a hindrance to the functions of the chest." He hissed in frustration at a symptom that he had missed, and he looked at his Elvenking apologetically. "I am sorry, _aran-nin._ I take full responsibility for a lapse that could have prevented all of this."

"What were you supposed to do," Thranduil said resignedly, "read the minds of soldiers who are so used to hurting they cannot tell functional fitness from danger, or cannot be bothered to voice it? Or would you cut into each and every one who feels an otherwise minor pain in some likelihood that it is anything more serious? It could not have been helped. Now tell me what can be done instead."

Maenor gave him a determined nod. "I will cut into him and check if the source of the bleeding has sealed itself. If not, I will repair it. If we do not do so, the breathing problem will recur, not to mention further blood loss which he already suffers. I would also like to see if we need to evacuate more of the fluid from his chest. The Lord Glorfindel's ingenious drainage bought us time, but we need to do more now, and I would do it here rather than move him."

"You will as always, have everything you need to proceed," Thranduil said.

Maenor looked over his shoulder at Legolas, whose eyes were still closed. "You've heard everything, I suppose."

"Every miserable word," the other mumbled drowsily.

"And so I must ask - have you been drinking tonight?" Maenor asked.

"Oh, copiously."

Maenor sighed. "You always do know how to make my job harder, _ernil-nin_."

"I will help subdue him as I have before," Glorfindel said.

"I fear you've already overtaxed yourself tonight, my lord," the healer said. "You can barely stand."

"What help?" asked Thranduil.

"He takes me... from miserable existence and into... elven dreams," Legolas replied tiredly, but this time he bothered to open his eyes. He looked at Glorfindel. "Standard sorcery for the reincarnated, I im-imagine. B-but Lord Maenor is right. I think I've tired you enough already this night. Your clothes are spotted red and... and not from me."

Glorfindel glanced at his mending middle to find that Legolas was right. He'd torn a few stitches, but he had been so caught up in the last few harrowing moments that even as he looked at them he couldn't feel them.

"Your blood is everywhere _ernil_," Glorfindel said wryly. "How do you even know this isn't yours?"

"Yours is regal and blue," Legolas teased half-deliriously around his hitching breaths, "with specks of gold. Mine... is only of... and for the earth."

Maenor stifled out a morbid laugh. Thranduil rolled his eyes.

"You've torn stitches?" Maenor asked.

"I did not tear them." Glorfindel jerked his head at the formidable Elvenking who had thrown him across the room earlier. "Take your quarrel up with him."

Maenor gaped, and placid Thranduil was going to say nothing, so Glorfindel said, wryly, "I'll live through it."

**# # #**

While Maenor and his cohorts prepared their wares for the operation they meant to perform on Legolas, and Thranduil spoke with his chief-of-staff Galion about the activities of the following day and the changes he meant to make in his schedule, Glorfindel found himself sitting by an apprehensive Legolas' head. Glorfindel was assigned this post so that he could help bring Legolas to deeper unconsciousness later, and he was too exhausted to rise.

The elven prince's eyes, he noticed, were shooting around anxiously, and he shifted in discomfort.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Glorfindel asked him quietly.

"Do you see the Lord Brenion nearby?"

"I would not know. I've not had the honor of meeting him, I'm sorry."

"He is my father's War Minister," Legolas said. "I would like to speak with him privately but I do not think I would be given the time."

"It is unwise to wait in your situation," Glorfindel said. "Is there anyone else I can summon for you? Or a message I might convey on your behalf?"

The young elf hesitated. "Lord Glorfindel – I am grateful to you for many things. Thank you for saving my life."

"Now we're even," Glorfindel teased, because he did not like the somewhat funereal feeling he was getting from the other elf.

Legolas shook his head dismissively. "It is not just that. If I were not in your company, there is a great likelihood I would have been dead come morning for... for father to f-f-find. That you had spared him that... it is something I can never repay."

Glorfindel did not quite know what to say to that, so he simply gave a nod of acknowledgement.

"If I may impose upon you further," Legolas said, "I will be asleep and cut. If I do not wake, I have a succession plan in place. It has been on _aran-nin_'s desk for years now – ready for his sign and seal, but apparently not for his reading. I have replacements in line, and very well-trained ones. Some of them I've outlived by now, but it should stand. Do not let my people scramble in the dark, father will need help. There is a plan."

"That is... wise," Glorfindel murmured.

"And please tell my lord Brenion: _adar _is a fighter of a different war," Legolas continued, his cadence speeding up as he started to feel that he was running out of time before his and Glorfindel's privacy ran out.

"The terrain here is irregular," he went on, "requiring stealth and pliability. The brute strength, large long swords and hard armor more amenable to an open battlefield – _adar's_ expertise – are an ill fit. Furthermore, we fight not only orcs, but also _uruk-hai_ that brave the concealed daylight in our darkened forest. There are also nests of innumerable spiders. They are all muscle in those many legs, feel less pain, have less sense of strategy or preservation. They can attack in mindless swarms that sometimes do not know retreat, only hunger. If I am gone or cannot venture out, he will feel compelled to. They must not let him. It is a different war. But he will feel he has to-"

He quieted himself with the shift of his father's attention on him. Glorfindel could not tell by Thranduil's impassive expression if he had heard anything.

"Do you need a moment?" Glorfindel asked the royals.

"I need a reprieve," Legolas said, suddenly lightly. "Perhaps we can wait, _adar_. I do not feel unwell anymore."

Thranduil gave him a long-suffering sigh.

"There is a stick in your side leaking blood that says otherwise," The Elvenking pointed out. "We proceed. Immediately."

Maenor, sensing his king's impatience, scurried forward. He had a soporific in hand, and from where Glorfindel sat he could smell a light mixture of ether and poppy. It was indeed a conservative dose, but one he approved of given Legolas' existing difficulties and the drink he had partaken of during dinner. He would have to exert more of his own efforts in keeping the other's _fea_ in comfort and sleep.

"If I may," Glorfindel murmured, raising his hands up in preparation of touching Legolas' head. He was not even sure from whom he was asking permission.

Thranduil and Maenor both nodded. Legolas looked up at him with a jaunty expression belied by earnest eyes.

Glorfindel lowered his hands. Their souls touched. He heard Legolas plea as if he had done it out loud – _Remember what we talked about_.

**# # #**

The operation was uneventful, and everyone did their jobs accordingly, including Glorfindel, whose presence and touch helped keep Legolas asleep and pain-free.

It was, however, taxing on his own healing body. He emerged from the exercise exhausted, and did not argue with the healer who helped him lie upon the pillows that had been set for him near Legolas' head. He was asleep before one of Maenor's healers had finished re-stitching the wounds on his tender stomach.

**# # #**

Glorfindel woke hours later to find himself still on the floor of Legolas' offices. The prince himself had been moved it seemed; whether he was relocated to his sleeping chambers or the healing halls, Glorfindel did not know. The doors to the bedroom were closed.

He found he felt stronger after the deep rest, and that even after staying on the ground he did not feel sore or cold. He had pillows on his back and someone had thought to cover him with a plush blanket.

To his surprise, he was kept company by the Elvenking, who was sitting on the ground near him and staring at the fireplace. Thranduil's usually focused eyes looked abstract and lonely, and he was uncharacteristically a world away.

Glorfindel watched the other elf for a long moment. He had seen Thranduil when he was younger, after his father Oropher died in battle. Even then he did not look like this – burdened and old and world-weary.

_Had something worse happened to his son_, was Glorfindel's first, terrified thought. But as he stretched his senses, he found Legolas' signature dawning light, still fighting for its turn over the dark.

Glorfindel must have jerked at the thought though, for Thranduil turned to him then, and his lost gaze was quickly veiled by that intelligent intensity.

"My lord Glorfindel," Thranduil greeted him. "You seem better recovered. I am glad. We are grateful indeed for your help in my son's treatment."

"He is well?"

"Well enough."

Glorfindel gave him a moment. Thranduil was here for a reason, and he knew the Elvenking would get to it soon enough.

"I am grateful both in an official capacity, and on a more personal one. But if I may impose upon you further." Glorfindel remembered Legolas' own words from just hours before.

"Yes?"

Thranduil took a deep breath. "Lord Maenor found the source of Legolas' bleeding, a tear in one of the vessels in his chest that had thankfully needed little mending. The trouble was the amount of blood it had shed compressed his lungs. You removed plenty with your clever reed while Maenor washed out more before sewing the chest shut. Legolas is expected to recover in a few weeks."

"I am glad to hear it," Glorfindel said.

"Lord Maenor's explorations however, yielded an unfortunate discovery," Thranduil said with a barely-restrained grimace. "The tear was caused by a crack in the ribs, nothing too alarming or out of the ordinary in isolation and easily remedied, except..." he took a deep breath.

"Legolas' ribs are riddled with countless small damages," Thranduil went on. "Some from injury, others are stress fractures- signs of overwork. The damages are in various stages of freshness and healing, but it is clear today's incident is not the first time this had happened though it is certainly the worst. He'd bled inside many times before..." He ran a hand wearily over his face, at the quiet suffering of that thought.

"He'd bled inside many times before," he repeated more firmly, "only it hadn't been as bad and he just hadn't bothered with it. There's scarring and clots from older such injuries. Worse, there is a network of cracks in sections of his bones that can break at hard contact. This is only from his chest, we do not even know for the rest of his body. He is breaking down, and every hurt he should take in skirmishes moving forward could have outsize effects. He is at lethal risk because his body is overused."

Glorfindel took a deep breath himself, especially as he thought back to the poor elf screaming soundlessly in the night. The mind was _overused_ too, but that was not his story to tell.

"I am sorry to hear that," said Glorfindel. "But all of this is repairable, certainly."

"The prescription is rest," Thranduil said, "Months of it, for the bones to knit firmly without interruption. That is the only prescription – rest. And yet that is the most elusive cure here."

"Is this an affliction found in your other soldiers?" asked Glorfindel.

"It is possible but unlikely," said Thranduil. "There is no one who goes out as much, and has the skills and seniority to consistently take the hardest tasks, or defy orders of rest. Maenor is concocting means of screening for this hidden danger in our soldiers, but not many are expected to have this affliction to this magnitude."

"Then surely the prince can be spared for a few months," said Glorfindel. "You have so very many capable warriors here."

"You've met him," Thranduil said with both pride, fondness and weary resignation. "Short of tying him to a bed, how long can I keep him from fighting when there are soldiers getting hurt all around us? I can barely keep him in the stronghold for a week. I can make it an order but he will only break it, and I would have to punish him and he would have to defy me and push me to make his penalty worse. He knows I can only go so far. It is..." his eyes narrowed calculatingly, "bad politics."

"He is a grown elf," Glorfindel pointed out. "Make him understand."

"He is a warrior first, to his bones and his last breath," Thranduil countered. "He is either fighting on his feet or insensate on the ground. It is his strength, and his weakness. We will tell him eventually, and his sharp mind will understand and so he will initially comply with resting. But when push comes to shove, his heart will overcome his reserve. He will feel capable of fighting and he will leave. He will take the risk, that is his nature. But this is where you come in."

Glorfindel's brows rose. "Should I break his legs? That might buy you a month or so."

Thranduil's mouth quirked. "If anyone can match him in the fighting it would certainly be you. A most tempting proposition, my lord, but no."

"Then how can I possibly help?"

"The moment he is functional he will be commanding your escort back to Imladris," Thranduil said. "The journey will be arduous, but he is our best and when fit he will get you wherever you need to go. Once there though, I would need you to keep him for a few months. Quarter of a year - a full season - if the Lord Elrond is kind enough to accommodate. It is a genuine diplomatic assignment, but also a healing one. I will need you and your people to occupy and utilize him well. Do not make him feel as if he were shirking his duties by being there. And in return..." his jaw tightened, and his eyes were ablaze with determination.

"In return, I would be amenable to a formal alliance," Thranduil said, "and your council can ask of me what it wills - within reason."

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

* * *

**_MEDICAL NOTES:_**

* * *

I usually place notes at the end of fics, but in this case I think this will be interesting to readers now rather than later :)

**Legolas' Chest Injury. **This injury was inspired by one suffered in real life by former New England quarterback, Drew Bledsoe. It was the injury that brought him down and prompted Tom Brady to play in 2001.

Basically the way I understand it, an opposing linebacker slammed into Bledsoe. While the staggering blow knocked him down, he was still able to get back up and return to play. But because he seemed blitzed, the coaches sat him down soon afterwards. He seemed uncomfortable but complained mostly of shoulder pain. It was a standard pain in his profession, but thanks to his vigilant doctors, they examined other options.

What they eventually found was a torn blood vessel from behind his ribs, which ended up sending liters of blood into his chest. Bledsoe had been complaining of shoulder pain because a nerve sitting at the area around the top of the shoulder, was irritated. This nerve links to the diaphragm, which was reacting to the blood in the chest. He suffered a hemothorax, and found relief when they drained the blood. He improved quickly but it was a serious injury he could have died from.

**The Treatment. **Of course my fic does not diagnose hemothorax and its treatments explicitly - I just use the modern diagnosis for self-reference so that I can write more realistically. In this fic, I depicted Legolas suffering from a delayed hemothorax (which can happen many hours or sometimes even days after injury, in many cases following a spell of coughing).

My philosophy in determining what diagnoses and treatments are available in the LOTR-verse is based on technology to parallel available weaponry. What does this mean? As long as men have forged weapons against each other, men have also found ways to treat injuries from them, right? So if LOTR is pre-gunpowder (save for Saruman's debatable movie-verse Helm's Deep bomb), I look at our own human history to see what treatments were available during the time we had only swords and arrows.

It should surprise no one that injuries that require a kind of chest drainage or chest surgery, like hemothorax, was common all throughout human history (imagine the kind of damage those crazy museum weapons could inflict!). What may be more surprising is how close the concept of treatments were before to how they are now.

The use of chest tubes as we know them today has its roots in the 1950s for example, but the concept and practice has been around for thousands of years – all the way back to Hippocrates himself in 5th century BCE. Documents include notes on the use of tin drainage tubes. Chest surgery has also been documented for at least as long. As for the use of reeds... I took the example of a knight's chest injury from the text _Parzival_ (written in the 13th century), where he was treated with a reed inserted into his wound with a woman sucking out the blood that was straining his organs inside. Whether or not this particular treatment was common is unknown; surgeons at the time were like businessmen protective of their techniques and there is limited documentation. But the mechanism is logical and similar to modern medicine.

As for the less serious injury of stress fractures... these can happen in real life too. The tendency is toward the lower body (which bears weight) but interestingly, rowers do get stress fractures in their ribs. I appropriated it for archers here because rowing works the same primary muscles and is actually supposed to be recommended exercise for archers.

I am not a doctor. I am a writer / researcher, so the injury and treatment here are a mix of inspirations from historical fact, melded with some creativity to push the story forward. I just hope the grounding in some human history and biology gives the fic better realism and depth :)


	7. Lessons

_**hello everyone!**_

_Look, another ill-timed Tuesday update, and I almost made it a week between posts, lol. Thank you everyone for reading and especially reviewing. Reviewers are really the biggest jolt for me to work and post - I really value your kind words and insights. Responses are coming, but I would really just like to give everyone a general shoutout here :) Please sign reviews when you can, so that I can thank you personally, and be able to address your comments. I have really wordy and detailed responses with the occasional spoiler lol - then again, maybe if you don't want a nuisance like me on your inbox, you can spare yourselves the grief hahaha :) _

_At any rate, this chap is a bit long. It was too short and so I moved up a few paras from the following chapter but now it's too long. Life is funny like that I guess ;) I just hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoy writing, and please send me C&C's if you are able. Thanks again and without further ado:_

# # #

**7: Lessons**

# # #

_Mirkwood, T.A. 2851_

# # #

It was a surprising but welcome development, Glorfindel thought. A large part of his work in Mirkwood was suddenly done: he had secured an alliance with the notoriously insular Thranduil.

In afterthought, he really should have known Legolas would be the key that unlocked the Elvenking's full cooperation. However welcome the boon was though, Glorfindel thought it unjust in one way.

"The Lord Elrond will care for him even without your bargain," he felt duty-bound to say.

"I prefer square dealings over the asymmetry of gratitude," Thranduil said. "It is better footing on both sides."

Glorfindel nodded at him gravely. "Then on behalf of the Lord of Imladris, with whose voice I am authorized to speak: we have an accord, Elvenking."

**# # #**

Dinner for the next nights were casual affairs for Glorfindel, who was excused from the presence of the royals while Legolas convalesced. He was thus free to join his men for meals in the common room.

He ate there gladly. Amongst brother-soldiers, there was camaraderie to be had even between very different kin. Glorfindel and his soldiers were able to converse with their hosts comfortably, and the wood-elves, while wary, were curious and courteous to the visiting Imladrians.

Their reception became even warmer when word spread that Glorfindel had helped save their beloved _ernil's_ life. He suffered their stares and questions gladly, especially as they started to trust him more and became more forthright with their own answers about the plight of their forest. If Thranduil was controlling the flow of information that could be discussed with the visitors, it was not apparent.

As for Legolas, the token that had won for Glorfindel his diplomatic victory here, he was nowhere in sight for days. The warlord from Gondolin hoped he was doing better.

After one dinner, he dismissed his guards and retired to his rooms, and found occasion to look through the belongings his men had packed from the healing halls and brought into his quarters at the royal residence.

One of Legolas' books caught his eye and he winced. He'd forgotten to tell them these were borrowed and not his. It was a dog-eared, well-worn book of a long, epic adventure, obviously beloved. He picked it up and sighed as he contemplated the accidentally stolen book.

A convalescent prince would surely want to have this piece of amusement in hand, wouldn't he?

Glorfindel sighed again, and briefly entertained the option of having someone else deliver the book to Legolas, wherever he was. It was mildly embarrassing to say he'd taken it without permission. But he decided to take responsibility, and seek out the prince that very night.

He stepped out of his chambers to the empty halls of the royal residences. The guards who were its gatekeepers were further down the winding ways, discreet and out of sight. He walked toward where he remembered Legolas' quarters were. He did not know if Legolas was resting here or in the healing wards, so he stretched out his senses and felt the other's presence beyond the door. The prince was indeed inside, and awake. He raised his hand to knock, but even before his fist met wood, the elf within said,

"It is unlocked - enter!"

Glorfindel lowered his hand and did so quietly. The sitting room and offices were empty, and he grimaced at the thought that he had disturbed the convalescent prince in his bedroom, where he was likely already turned in for the night. What he found though, was that while the prince was indeed abed, he was sitting cross-legged on top of it, surrounded by papers.

Legolas was in a warm, heavy robe over the thin, white slip of a convalescent. His torso looked thickened by layers of bandages. He was pale and drawn still, and it was a sign he was not quite fully atuned to his surroundings when he startled at Glorfindel. But only briefly – he blinked and sharpness was restored to his gaze. His hands had drifted up to close at the robes over his chest too, but he abandoned the idea and pretended ease instead.

"Lord Glorfindel," he greeted with a slight bow, a very reserved one that kept him from jarring his healing chest. He did not rise.

"Prince Legolas," Glorfindel returned the gesture, just as wary about his own healing belly. He stayed at the doorframe, unwilling to enter so private a space until invited. "I apologize for the late intrusion."

He raised up the 'stolen' book as a quick confession, to get it over with quickly.

Legolas' eyes brightened at once. "Why there it is!"

Glorfindel grimaced. "I came upon your contraband in the healing halls and could not resist some amusement. I accidentally brought this with me when I left. I am very, _very _sorry."

He stepped toward Legolas then, and handed the book over. The archer took it in both hands, and gave it a small squeeze before laying it beside his hip.

"I am just glad I hadn't lost it," he said. "Thank you."

"No, thank you. I was desperate for diversion during my incarceration in there."

"Now that I can understand," Legolas said wryly.

"You were expecting someone else?" Glorfindel asked.

Legolas grimaced. "I gave my word to remain in bed in exchange for being allowed to stay here rather than suffer the transfer to Lord Maenor's halls. Invariably I've also had to suffer the frequent visitor for checking I've not died of boredom here."

"It was – is - a serious wound," Glorfindel said.

Legolas waved away the reminder.

"It looks like you've held up your literal end of the bargain," Glorfindel nodded at the work littering the bed. "But I would say perhaps, not its spirit. You are meant to rest, I think."

"That they did not specify is their shortcoming, not mine."

Glorfindel gave him a slight smile. He felt he ought to leave and cooperate in the objective of making Legolas rest, but the wood-elf seemed starved for diversion.

"What is so important it keeps a sick prince from rest?"

"I'm not sick," came the prompt correction, before the answer: "Maps, duty rosters, the results of the archery tests for my prototype shafts. The military situation changes too quickly so I fear our people are just humoring me with most of the reports, but the documents from the armory are fascinating."

He motioned for Glorfindel to sit on the bed. There was a chair beside it, but laden with a stack of papers and other miscellany. The ancient warlord lowered himself to the mattress, while accepting a sheaf of papers charting the depth of hits made by a variety of arrow shafts, tested from a variety of distances, angles and conditions.

"As you know," said Legolas, "many of the shafts will be lost once battle begins and many archers have to recover or scavenge for replacements. But to go out with the best weaponry, one can really make a big difference in the initial charge, or for reinforcements. We are also working on the best way to craft scavenged shafts."

"This is a remarkable document," Glordindel said, earnestly. "How do you control for the outcomes?"

"We use the same archer exerting the same force," replied the other, "measured by his stance. You know – distance between the legs, angle of the hip, length of the draw and so on. It won't be completely precise of course, so we move within acceptable ranges. With all else held equal, we really get a good sense of the best kind of weapon."

"I remember now I had promised you an intact arrow from our own Rivendell supplies," Glorfindel said. "I wonder how those would fare."

"Why don't we wager upon it?"

"You really are bored," Glorfindel said. "Ah, but I am not much of a gambler, _ernil_. And with the kind of attention you employ toward the craftsmanship of your weapons here, I would not bet against you."

"But the Noldorin elves are the wisest amongst us, aren't they?" It was slightly mocking; shades of Thranduil's derision was unavoidably there.

"Only in some ways more than others," Glorfindel said wryly. "The Noldor cannot boast supremacy in all things – much as they may want to."

"I will keep that in mind," Legolas snorted, and looked at a jar of water and a selection of cups on a tray at his nightstand. "Would you like to give this another try?"

Glorfindel smiled. "Tea sounds lovely."

**# # #**

They both had to work for it, the two pain-stiffed, convalescent soldiers who had to lean and bend for hot water over fire. But the tea – laced with all manner of Maenor's healing deceptions / sorcery no doubt – was worth the trouble.

The two golden warriors reclaimed their seats on the prince's bed, each one bearing a steaming, soothing mug of tea. Glorfindel hummed appreciatively.

"It is just as well you are here, my lord," Legolas said.

"Glorfindel," the older elf corrected. "If you will, _ernil_."

"And 'Legolas' for me," said the other. "_Adar _told me we are to travel together, and you may as well be used to it."

"You do mot use your title beyond the stronghold, do you?"

"I imagine a rather brutal fate if my identity were widely known," Legolas sighed. "But my resemblance to _adar_ is rather plain to many, so I do not even know if the secrecy really counts for much. The lesser orcs are probably unaware. But I've been called 'Thranduilion' by an _uruk-hai_ or two. They are more perceptive. Not to compare you with the filth, but we are strangers and even you knew right away."

"It is impossible to mistake," Glorfindel said, "it being I had met your grandfather, and then the Elvenking. When there is three of you to compare, the family resemblance is astounding. But of course the ruse must he kept. Every advantage counts, as you said."

"Too true," Legolas agreed.

"How are you healing?" Glorfindel asked.

"My Lord Maenor's stitches sting," Legolas shared. "They certainly offer me more discomfort than whatever it is he had cut me open for."

"You tore a vessel and bled into your chest, compressing your lungs," Glorfindel pointed out, which Legolas again waved away. Glorfindel could see now, the kind of difficulty Thranduil had in keeping this forest child out of the fighting fray.

"You are lucky that is all you feel," Glorfindel said grimly. "You need to take better care."

"And how are you progressing?"

Glorfindel wondered if forthrightness about his own lingering weakness would encourage the other elf to do the same.

"All my movements are measured and I still tire easily," he admitted. "At times I feel sore and nauseatingly hollow, but it is bearable."

Legolas nodded. "Your injury was much worse than mine. I will consult with Maenor and factor in your healing progress into the activities I have planned for us."

Glorfindel bristled at the thought, well-meaning though it may be, that the pompous _princeling_ whose chest was cut open a few days ago had the temerity to basically say, _I will slow down for you_.

He bit his tongue to keep from retorting anything. Pride – it was still an occasional vice, after everything he'd been through.

"That is most kind," he managed to say instead, through grit teeth. He took a deep breath and went for a more productive topic. "What activities do you have in mind?"

"Well you want to learn about our people," said Legolas, "and we should prepare to journey together soon, so let us kill two birds with one stone, as they say. I will arrange a briefing with you and your men on terrain, flora and fauna – we will discuss all you need to know that might help you survive the forest. I assume you have good skills for the wilderness, but we have a unique ecosystem here, and a changing one given the darkness creeping up on our territory, so I believe it is necessary. It will be similar to a curriculum we require of all our citizens."

"Even non-combatants?"

"_All_ our citizens," Legolas repeated. "Everyone is a combatant now, in some way. Meeting one's physiological needs and finding survival in the forest is key. Another thing I mean to include is an exhibition of warring skills. With my lord Maenor's clearance of course, and we can just make arrangements for the convalescent like you later after you've recovered."

"Most thoughtful of you," Glorfindel muttered, beginning to become annoyed again. Legolas brow and lip quirked, and he wondered for a moment if he was being baited or teased. He kept his peace, and Legolas proceeded.

"We need to see what you might need to improve in terms of the fighting demands here," Legolas said. "Effectively subduing spiders and rabid animals are different from combating militarily-trained, two-legged soldiers as you may be more accustomed to. We also need to see what your strengths are, so that we may know what assets we can draw from in a fight. And we too, will happily exhibit our wares for your evaluation."

"It is practical and intriguing indeed," Glorfindel said, his interest genuinely piqued by the prospect of an exhibition of skills.

"And then we can do a higher-level briefing on intelligence and tactical matters," Legolas said. "You and I as commanders of our troops, and then our seconds. Once we know each other's weaknesses and strengths, we can create firmer plans for further training, and our journey to Imladris."

"We will also need a briefing on your soldierly language," Glorfindel pointed out. "When we are on the field, we need to be able to know what kind of shorthand signaling you do, so that we can immediately respond as well."

Legolas nodded. "You are right, I should have thought of that. It will be included. And perhaps we can venture out on a patrol or two as well, to test our preparedness as a joint group before we embark on the long journey."

"This is very good, Legolas," Glorfindel said earnestly. "And along the course of this practical training, I expect we will discover a lot about your struggles and your culture here."

Legolas shifted uneasily in his seat. "I suppose you would have a similar program for me in Imladris. _Adar_ informed me that after I escort you there, I and a party of our representatives are expected to stay a while for similar diplomatic efforts."

"Ah yes, he had informed me. We are very much eager to receive you, _ernil-nin_. There really is much we can do if we work together."

"The truth is I can barely be spared around here lately," Legolas said. "I've gone on similar duties on _adar's_ behalf in other lands, but only nearby. I've always believed in outside engagement but I did not think he would send me away for so long. You must have a golden tongue to go with that head of hair, my lord. However in the world did you convince him to engage with Imladris and the White Council anyway?"

Glorfindel gave the other elf a long look, and realized Thranduil might not have told Legolas yet of the weakness in his bones and the danger to his life. He decided to move forward with this conversation carefully.

_Your father loves you, _he ached to say, though. _All I did was stand in the right place at the right time and reap my unjust rewards. _

"I'm not sure what I said," Glorfindel said. "But I am grateful not only for the Elvenking's agreement to an alliance, but also for your company."

**# # #**

A classroom.

Of all things right and holy, uncountable years and two lives later, Glorfindel found himself in _a classroom_.

Legolas' righthand-man, the soldier Silon, escorted the Imladris elves from breakfast at the mess halls. He led the way around the labyrinthine halls until they came upon an expansive library, which held a number of smaller study rooms outfitted with desks and chairs. They commandeered the largest one.

Glorfindel's seasoned soldiers were similarly miserable at the prospect of sitting behind a desk for hours listening to lectures and falling on the mercy of a teacher, but he _schooled_ his dismay to set an example for his men.

Glorfindel took a seat center and back to be able to watch his people and ensure their cooperation, while everyone found their own places. No one wanted to take the front seats, but eventually someone had to. They kept the seats to Glorfindel's left and right bare, for their commanding office's privacy and space.

Silon hung around and made casual chatter with the Imladrians, until Legolas arrived to introduce the first lecturer of the day, a tiny Silvan elf named Telion. The Woodland Prince then took one of the seats beside Glorfindel to watch the proceedings.

Glorfindel glanced at him with a raised brow. "What happened to bed rest?" he murmured at Legolas, barely moving the corners of his lips. The wood-elf did that thing again, the waving of his fine, royal hand and its apparent dismissal or dissipation of an unwanted topic.

Glorfindel turned his attention toward more productive matters than dealing with a stubborn fool. He listened to the expert speaker Telion, who quickly proved he was at least amongst the kingdom's hardiest scouts. He knew the land of his people and its immediate environs inside and out. He looked at the world in multiple dimensions, discussing not only terrain, but what the terrain was like depending on the season, depending on the time of day, depending on whether one was going on foot or with a horse or with a beast of burden, depending on whether one went to patrol or for intelligence or a battle or a hunt for food or a hunt for foes.

He also discussed the foliage as if it was geography – what trees could be traversed from aboveground, the vines and branches that would bear weight. He discussed navigation; how the flow of the river waters, or the direction of the wind, or the type of soil and growth were indicators of where one was in a map, because the Woodland was large and diverse.

The expertise and minutiae was impressive, Glorfindel felt, and he looked at Legolas beside him. The prince, however, was not listening to his lecturer much. He was quietly looking over his own paperwork; had perhaps stayed only for commiseration, rather than listen to a talk he'd heard and lived many times before.

The group broke for lunch, a simple meal served in the library instead of the school room for the soldiers to stretch their legs. Telion was immediately beset by a few of the Imladris soldiers, who were drawn to his expertise and earnest sharing of information. They were also warm toward Silon, who was an affable soldier-type of the variety familiar amongst many brothers-in-arms. They were far more reserved with Legolas who, while officially forgiven for ending the soldier Nestadis' life, was still set apart from the Rivendell group as their comrade's killer.

It did not help that he was a prince of Oropher and Thranduil's vein, and they did not quite know how to breach relations with someone of his standing. It also did not help that he had adopted a quiet standoffishness, whether by personality or, as suggested by the hand sometimes drifting over his chest, from lingering discomfort and injury.

If Legolas was cognizant or had a care for his distance from everyone else, Glorfindel could not tell. The Woodland Prince's face was impassive, and he was a quiet, unobtrusive presence in the room, keeping to the walls and sometimes leaning upon them.

Glorfindel watched him from the corner of his eye, wondered if he should interfere and tell the convalescent warrior to seek his bed. But somehow he always came to the decision that it was perhaps not his business. A soldier of Legolas' caliber ought to know how far to push himself... or at least, he ought to have found good friends who could make the decision for him by now.

Sure enough, Silon approached his prince and commander, and they discussed something in their Woodland dialect. The conversation seemed harsh but stayed hushed. After a moment, Glorfindel watched as Silon and Legolas walked out of the libraries together, with one of the latter's hands pressed to the walls as he strode forward. He did not return for the lecturing after lunch.

**# # #**

A few hours after another casual, mess hall dinner, Glorfindel headed again for Legolas' chambers. He bore with him a promised present: three standard-issue arrow shafts from Imladris, and he threw in a bow as well. They had belonged to Nestadis and recovered from the battlefield.

While there was a kind of perverse irreverence to handing her weapons over to her killer, she obviously had no use for the things now. Furthermore, if they could be studied to improve the elves' odds against their real enemies, then Glorfindel believed handing them over to Legolas was noble utility.

As before, he was told the doors were unlocked and was called to enter even before he could knock. And also as before, Legolas was sitting on his bed surrounded by his work. This time though, he registered no surprise at the arrival of his guest.

"Come on in, my lord," he told Glorfindel, again motioning for the older elf to find a spot on his cluttered bed.

"How do you even sleep like this?" Glorfindel asked as he did as he was bid.

"How do you not?" Legolas asked jauntily. His expression softened and he confessed, "They remind me of sleeping outdoors, about a bed of obliging leaves."

Glorfindel shook his head at the wood-elf in amusement. He handed over the arrow shafts he had brought. "As promised."

Legolas received them with glee, and started immediately examining the shafts. "Excellent make, but you were wise not to have wagered on these."

Glorfindel snorted.

"Have some tea if you wish, my lord," Legolas said with a small smile, nodding distractedly toward a jug and cups at his night stand. He studied the bow next, and ran his hands reverently over the elegant curves of the weapon.

"This is well-used and well-tended," he murmured appreciatively, "Well-loved, I think. How could its owner possibly spare it for my curiosity..."

He dropped it as if his hand burned, and Glorfindel held his breath. Legolas looked at him with an expression of anger and confusion; he had apparently come to the realization that the only soldier who could spare such a weapon was probably a dead one. And they both knew of only one who had an Imladris bow – Nestadis, who had died by Legolas' own hand.

"I am trying to decide if you meant to hurt by this," Legolas said tightly. "I am trying to decide if you are thoughtless or cruel. I am trying to decide which is worse."

"When I cut you I meant what I said," Glordindel replied. "Your punishment is undeserved. And I took to heart the words of your father – that we are brothers in shared mourning. More than that though, we are brothers in this war, and these weapons are meant to fight for us, whether they be in the hands of Nestadis, or to live on after her."

Legolas glanced at the abandoned bow on his bed. "I don't suppose you believe in ghosts, _hir-nin_."

_You are haunted_, Glorfindel deduced. But he knew it was not by the ghosts of Nestadis, or by any of those elves he had killed, those whose memories were branded on his skin. He was haunted by the darkness of his own mind, the taint on his soul. What had Thranduil said, when they first conversed here?

_"__If you did not grow beneath these darkening trees, fighting as we have fought, tainted by a shadow we have allowed to creep in so that we may not be so easily hunted – you will stick out like a flame in the dark, and they will snuff you out..."_

Was this the taint Legolas let into his soul? Killing his kin, even if with good reason? Just as Thranduil's taint was the daily sacrifice of his child? Just as their people's taint was the tacit allowance of it all, and the pain they knew they inflicted by asking their prince to kill them? Glorfindel did not know what to say about any of it.

Legolas shook his head at himself, and made a vague, dismissive motion with his hands.

"At any rate this is ideal for my purposes," said Legolas curtly, turning his attention toward his strewn papers. It did not escape Glorfindel's notice that he covered the bow and arrows with them, kept the dead _elleth's_ weapons out of sight. "These shafts must be studied in the context of their bows too. Thank you."

"I did not mean to hurt," Glorfindel said quietly, but firmly. His welcome felt confiscated. "I will leave you to your work."

"Good night, my lord," said Legolas dismissively, not even bothering to look back up at him.

**# # #**

The Imladris elves had a few more sessions with Telion, whose knowledge of bushcraft was extensive and at many points alien to the Rivendell elves who lived in such different environs. One of the highlights was an educational lunch made with scavenged food – wild greens, fresh berries and edible flowers, matched with nuts, seeds and to everyone's mild horror and utter fascination, insects.

"In a besieged forest," Telion explained, "sometimes there is no life to hunt – fish, small or big game – no matter how skilled you are. But one can live on things like this. You can survive an awful long time on certain roots too, I can tell you that – some of them even give out more energy than common food. But such plant properties will be discussed with you by someone else."

While Telion quickly endeared himself to his student guests and the Imladris elves were happy to have him, there was also much excitement when he said he had shared all he could about his topic of assignment – physiological needs in the Woodland – to make way for a different instructor.

"In the next few days the discussions will be about security," Telion said as their last day with them drew to a close. "The lecturer will discuss common foes in the forest, their range of movements and common tactics, their weaknesses and so on."

It sounded exciting, and Glorfindel wondered if it would be Legolas to do the speaking; he'd not seen the prince since that night in his room days past when he gave up Nestadis' bow for study. He also did not know if he looked forward to it, given how coldly their last conversation ended.

**# # #**

Legolas appeared the next morning but not as their lecturer; the same way he had introduced Telion to the Imladris elves, he was there to introduce a red-haired, fiery-eyed, lithe warrior-e_lleth_, who had the posture and poise of cool command.

Her sharp gaze raked over the Noldorin elves in the room, already assessing them. Glorfindel smirked to himself, sensing everyone straightening up just a bit more.

"Captain Tauriel," Legolas had called her, and he explained to them her credentials, before giving her the floor. As he had for Telion, he sat in the back beside Glorfindel for the first day.

The ancient warlord could not help but note how the younger elf's cheeks were flushed, as he pretended to be busy with his paperwork.

**# # #**

Tauriel was a wonder, whose intelligence and intensity for her work showed through as she explained the Woodland's most common infestations and how to best combat them.

She was also slightly mad – she came to the classroom earlier than everyone else one morning, sitting with a giant, taxidermy spider with faux nonchalance. Her eyes glinted at each surprised new arrival.

But beyond the mad wood-elf streak, she explained spider biology and weak points with incredible detail. She discussed other species too, other animals, how to detect their presence, how to spot their tracks, their nests, their hunting patterns. She discussed even their daytime and nocturnal habits, their cycles of hibernation (when they could be more safely hunted) and mating (when they are more aggressive and territorial).

It was a lot to learn especially after the lengthy and detailed sessions with Telion, but everything fascinated Glorfindel. Every lesson was vital too, all oriented toward survival. That singular, obsessive orientation was central to everything in this country.

Over the days she spent with then, Tauriel became as popular with the men as Telion. She was respected for her expertise, but had made away with a few hearts too; Glorfindel's second-in-command, Istor, among them.

Not that Istor had much of a chance – by how she constantly referred to the skills, strategy, expertise, _everything _of her "_ernil-nin_," (who had been absent after the first day) Glorfindel suspected there was more than professionalism there. Legolas had blushed at his lauding introduction of her too, after all.

If only this benighted land ever gave them a chance at anything more than survival.

**# # #**

The sessions with Tauriel included a stint watching the Wood-elves in combat training at fields near the King's Halls.

"Our military history," she said, "shows strategy can be affected by factors like the environment and the size of the fighting forces. The skills and disciplines required of open battlefields, guerilla fighting, raids, sieges and such – are all different.

"Here in the Woodland," she continued, "we lean toward small stealth forces with highly individualized fighting – even our armor and weapons, if you notice, are not fully according to regulation. Uniformity and coordinated formations are unwieldly given the thickness of the foliage and the irregular terrain. We also train with them of course, but their practical use is limited..."

The Imladrians watched on, as sample drills were conducted on fighting spider swarms, wild wolves, _uruk-hai_ and other foes. They were experts in their own ways too though, and ached to show off their own knowledge rather than just being educated.

Inevitably, good-natured barbs and challenges were exchanged between the Greenwood elves and the Imladris soldiers. Wages were made too.

Glorfindel watched the exchange from a distance with amusement, but also itched to grab his own sword. He was a soldier before anything else, and proud of that distinction. But Tauriel, likely set upon by Lord Maenor, watched him knowingly and like a hawk. He shrugged at her helplessly, and she laughed. It was a lovely, open sound that made her eyes shine.

She stopped abruptly at the soundless arrival of someone behind Glorfindel. She bowed low, and had opened her mouth to say something to the other soldiers but was stayed by the new arrival's raised hand.

Glorfindel turned to face him – Legolas, who was clad in a councilman's robes. Glorfindel had seen him in armor and camouflage, in military mourning, in formal dinner attire, and _en dishabille _ while convalescing. This was a new incarnation altogether – he even had a small circlet on his head. No wonder Tauriel had bowed befitting a royal.

Glorfindel followed suit, which Legolas returned. The prince's eyes drifted toward the training fields.

"Fighting exhibitions were not meant for a week more," he said to Glorfindel. "I had hoped you and I would be more recovered by then. But I suppose this is a good preview; both sides will be more prepared for when they meet again."

"My fingers itch for my sword," Glorfindel confessed.

The other elf's lips quirked. "A temptation I share and am, like you, prohibited to indulge at the moment. In the meantime, I've found other usefulness."

"You have duties beyond warring of course," Glorfindel commented.

"Father takes every opportunity I am in his halls to ensure I am well-versed in the administration of a country too," Legolas said. "You know they say good generals make bad politicians? I think he is trying to make me an average one of both."

It was a joke, Glorfindel realized, and he welcomed it gladly. "What happened to your arrogance?"

"I misplaced it," came the tart reply. Legolas paused before speaking quietly. "I am average at apologies too, I'm afraid. But I am sorry for how I had received your generous gifting of the weapons of the soldier Nestadis. I assure you they have since been put to good use on behalf of our common cause, and my people are grateful for them. It could not have been easy for you or your people, to hand them to me."

"There is no apology needed, _ernil_," said Glorfindel. "Truly."

They both watched the soldiers spar. The sense of competition electrified the air, even if the matches were unplanned and supposedly casual.

"You have excellent fighters," Legolas said, his expert eyes devouring the sight. "There is strength and pliability, speed, solid technique... their prowess alongside the knowledge my people are sharing about our terrain and our foes will make us a formidable traveling party indeed. With your soldiers this good though, I am most eager to see_ your_ wares."

"What if we just played around a little?" Glorfindel asked, "wooden sparring sticks..."

Legolas laughed. "Your fingers really do itch, don't they? Alas, I cannot believe it is I who must practice restraint here, but no. _No_, my lord. It is not the weapon that is at issue here, but range of movement. I held your guts un my hands, if you remember."

"It's been weeks," Glorfindel pointed out.

"Convince your healer, not me."

"And what of your own recovery?" Glorfindel asked, somewhat peevishly. He was not used to restraint.

"Rest assured - I will be ready whenever you are."

"Is that what your healer said?" Glorfindel countered, adding his own reminder of the other's serious condition. "I sucked blood from your chest, if _you_ remember."

"I remember," Legolas said mildly. "I will still be ready."

Glorfindel gave him an unbecoming snort, which again courted other's amusement.

"You are chomping at the bit," Legolas commented. "I think I have just the thing to occupy you while our soldiers try to best each other here."

He gave Tauriel a signal to continue as she had been doing, and motioned for Glorfindel to walk with him. They kept near the stronghold but toward some wood cover, where there were small structures that looked like farmhouses. Legolas lowered the circlet from his head and toyed with it in his hands.

"We were deliberating budgetary allocations earlier today and along the course of it I was struck by a thought," he explained. "And so you and I are to visit the head gamekeeper."

"What for?" Glorfindel asked. "Horses? Beasts of burden? Hunting?"

"We do not use horses much in the thick of the forest," said Legolas. "With the established roads dangerous now and the terrain elsewhere untamed, large beasts are unconcealable and unwieldly. We keep some around here of course, but the main cavalry are maintained in outpost stations; we do not expect to need them unless we venture out of the forest. We prefer going most places on our own feet."

"And so what is our business with the keeper?"

"Rock doves," said Legolas. "Messenger birds that know to find their way home. The distance between my father's halls and your Imladris is approximately 120 leagues as the eagle flies. Did you know these particular breed of messenger birds are believed to be ably to fly distances of up to three times that, at twenty leagues per hour? Then again maybe the gamekeeper was just boasting – or fighting for his funding."

Glorfindel did the calculations in his head. "If these birds are as hardy as promised, and can be trained to carry messages between our realms, word can reach each of us in as little as six hours. This would be a dramatic improvement from elven messengers who would have to take more than a week's journey on perilous roads."

"Do you have such birds in Rivendell?"

"We are more able to travel so the lack of necessity has not bred the innovation."

"What I am envisioning is to bring Greenwood-trained birds to Rivendell when we travel there," Legolas said. "Maybe fifty or so, nothing too unwieldly. Keep the birds and care for them, and they can be deployed for whenever you need to send messages to _aran-nin_. We can also bring untrained birds with us. These we teach to consider Rivendell home. When I go back to the Woodland after my visit, I will bring them with me and we can use them to send word to you whenever we need to as well."

Glorfindel nodded earnestly in appreciation. "If you can spare mating pairs," he added, "We can also breed them at Rivendell for further use."

"But we still need to consult with the keeper," said Legolas. "I want to know if the birds can survive the travel and thrive in the environs of your valley. I want to know what predators they have to worry about on their flight path. We also have to consider possibilities that they are invasive species to you in Imladris. We also have to determine if they can be trained in the timespan of the months I will be visiting, and so on and so forth."

"This could be a game-changer for how we conduct diplomacy," Glorfindel said, genuinely impressed. "Excellent thinking, _ernil-nin_. What did your father say? He must be proud."

"He suggested that with output like this I should spend more time thinking in his halls rather than going outside warring with my knives," Legolas replied. "I'd heard it often enough before but it is a campaign he's taken up in earnest lately. Something about that last injury had unnerved him, I think. It escapes me why – I'd certainly been in far worse straits." He looked at Glorfindel thoughtfully. "Well – you were there."

"There is always that final straw, I suppose..." Glorfindel suggested.

It was not his business to tell Legolas what his father and healer had apparently not; that he was a cracked, brittle vessel.

That for all his prowess, he was catastrophically breakable.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	8. Hold Me Back

_**hello everyone!**_

_**Quick thank you to all who are following our tale along so far, especially the reviewers.** RL a bit wild lately, but rest assured several chaps are lined up and ready for posting as soon as I better manage my time. Review responses coming soon too, I just want to thank everyone the best way I know how: with an update :) As always - C&C's are welcome, and I appreciate your time and insights. I hope you enjoy reading the story as much as I enjoy writing it. Best wishes to alp and have a great week!_

_Without further ado:_

# # #

**8: Hold Me Back**

# ##

_Mirkwood, T.A. 2851_

# # #

With all its participants sufficiently recovered, the dinners with Thranduil resumed. While the stakes here were always going to be high, Glorfindel was more at ease because he has had plenty of occasions with which to meet the royals by now.

As before he took his seat on Thranduil's left. As before, Legolas was late and stayed at his father's right. He, like Glorfindel, was moving more fluidly now, and he had good coloring rather than bruises. His eyes were alight rather than blood-specked.

But where he had been in great spirits even while sporting injury during the previous dinner, this night he was in fine health but foul mood. He was curt and restless, silently seething, somewhat abrupt with his wine.

Thranduil huffed at him in annoyance. Glorfindel realized he was now catching up to an argument the beginning of which he had already missed.

"For the love of the gods, Legolas," Thranduil snapped, "If you are going to be like this all evening..."

Legolas exhaled in irritation, but took a long, deep breath and calmed himself. He put a hand over his heart and bowed slightly in apology first at his father, and then their guest. But his eyes were still aflame with his unspoken displeasure.

"You know I cannot overrule Maenor," Thranduil said, more calmly himself. "We all have our compartmentalized duties for good reason. We all have our expertise... and so reserve such attitude for him, if you will."

Glorfindel's brow quirked in realization at what was transpiring here. He himself had gotten his clearance for exercise from the head healer just earlier today. Apparently, Legolas still had not.

"But I feel perfectly well," Legolas argued. "I feel strong, hungry for ground. I should be allowed sparring, some exercise at least. I've not felt this refreshed in a long time."

"You are barking up the wrong tree," Thranduil said. "For did you not feel well that last time too, only to be cut open and –"

"I am aware-"

"- you cannot just dismiss it this time," Thranduil said.

"But tell me this, _adar_," countered the other, "I look well. I feel strong. If I cannot trust in these things, what am I supposed to rely on?"

"The expertise of your healer," Thranduil said pointedly.

"He has gone too soft on me," Legolas proposed. "That is the only reason I see for his conservatism. I need someone more objective. Anyone with a good pair of eyes can see I am ready to resume my duties on the field."

"You question Lord Maenor's abilities?" asked Thranduil with narrowed eyes. It was, Glorfindel thought wryly, a valiant attempt at switching from being on the defense to putting the other elf on the back step.

Legolas responded just as he was expected to. He was soft on the head healer too apparently, and did not wish to slander him.

"You know that is not what I mean."

"Isn't it?" Thranduil pushed. "For if you ask a reassignment unto someone else's care, what am I to say to justify it, other than that you have ceased to trust Maenor's judgments?"

_Well played_, thought Glorfindel. Though looked at another way, Thranduil was hiding behind Maenor's position, rather than telling his son to stand down and rest under his own fatherly and / or kingly authority.

Legolas sighed. "Forget I said anything. I will just... have to try again until he tires of me." He looked at Glorfindel apologetically, for being witness to the informal argument. "It's certainly worked many times before. And how was your day, sir?"

Glorfindel gambled on a joke. "Why, the Lord Maenor was kind enough to release me from medical restrictions today."

Thranduil rolled back his eyes at the perverse humor. Legolas found it in himself to laugh, and his tension about the sore topic drained away - at least, for the moment.

Thranduil had noticed, and looked at Glorfindel thoughtfully. The rest of the evening unfolded productively, where the subjects flitted around the lessons about the Woodland.

Later at the conclusion of dinner, both Legolas and Glorfindel were dismissed for return to their own rooms. As before, Legolas walked their guest to the door of his chambers.

"Your bold claim is actually inaccurate," Legolas said, out of the blue.

"Hmm?"

"You are not yet released from medical restrictions," Legolas said. "You are allowed non-strenuous exercise and mild sparring. I know. I check daily."

"It just didn't sound as catchy for a joke," Glorfindel said.

Legolas smiled, and gave the older elf beside him a sideling glance. "You are able to find joy in many things, _hir-nin_."

"It is my blessing and curse."

"I would think more the former," Legolas said as they stopped at Glorfindel's door. "It is a quality I certainly admire. Have a good evening."

**# # #**

The stimulating Tauriel's vigorous lessons ended after a week, and in an almost complete contrast, she was followed by a doe-eyed _elleth_ whose gentle presence immediately had the Imladris soldiers behaving themselves.

"This is Rossenith," Legolas introduced her, "Chief herbalist and chemist at the healing wards, and herself a seasoned apprentice to the head of the healers himself, Lord Maenor."

The Prince gave the floor to his lecturer, and took up his spot at Glorfindel's side. As before, he worked on his papers and listened with half an ear.

Rossenith, though milder of manner than clinical Telion and powerful Tauriel, was no less of an expert in her own field. She discussed common injuries in the Woodland, and discussed a wide range of relief to be found through plants, if one was just able to identify, collect and properly prepare the remedies.

Glorfindel appreciated gentle Rossenith's accurate but accessible descriptions of field medicine, and marveled at the gifted commander who picked his people well and won their loyalty, sitting busily and obliviously beside him.

**# # #**

For dinner a few nights later, an uncharacteristically harried Galion fetched Glorfindel from his rooms and escorted him to dinner, not at Thranduil's rooms but at Legolas'.

He offered no explanations, but simply ushered Glorfindel along and then left him in the company of the Woodland Prince with a bow and a quick exit.

The dinner arrangement was no less lavish, but there was only a setting for two and Thranduil's absence was stark. There was a place setting at the head of the table and one to the side – Legolas was meant to take the place of honor. But with a marked dispassion, the elven prince took the place to its right and just slid the setting to his preferred seat. He left his absent father's usual seat bare, and motioned for Glorfindel to take the chair across from him.

Glorfindel lowered himself to the chair warily. "All is well?"

"My father inspected one of our southern outposts and was there at a moment of brutal attack," Legolas said tersely.

"Is he...?"

"Mostly unharmed," Legolas said quickly, "thank the gods. But he prefers licking his wounds on his own –"

_That sounds familiar..._

" - I will be your only sour company tonight. I apologize; I would have spared you, but it seemed too late to tell you to seek the mess hall for your evening meal instead."

"Why so sour when the Elvenking sounds not much worse for wear?" Glorfindel asked.

Legolas frowned, and for a long time seemed to have decided he would ignore the question. He took a long drink off of his goblet of wine.

"I knew it," he said quietly, bitterly. "I knew it. He is the soldier of a different war. Rusty. He should not have had to pick up his sword. He should not have had to venture out."

Glorfindel frowned in thought. He doubted very much that incompetence or lack of practice was what had brought someone of Thranduil's prowess into injury.

"He should not have been out doing my job," Legolas hissed, almost only to himself.

**# # #**

Glorfindel's hunch proved right, the more he learned of the situation the next morning.

The Elvenking's visit to one of the outposts was unannounced and stealthy, for his own protection. His surprise arrival however, had surprised not only his own soldiers but a raiding party of uruk-hai that thought they had chance at overwhelming the soldiers there.

Thranduil's chance arrival, along with some of the best soldiers of the Realm who were his personal guard, turned the tide quickly. The Elvenking not only held his own in the battle – he had led it to decisive, bloody triumph. Far from "rusty," he was its undisputed champion, the best amongst all who were there. The hurt he'd taken had also been a relatively minor one; a long slash about the forearm from a filthy but un-poisoned blade, remedied with stitches and salves and – if rumors held true – a sling he was hopefully using in private.

The whole Kingdom seemed pleased by the Elvenking's performance, the only dissenter being his own son.

Thranduil was even well enough to receive Glorfindel for dinner, and he looked as formidable as usual, holding the head of the table with practiced ease and studiously manning the carafes of fine wine. He did not have a sling on, Glorfindel noted, but wisely exercised reserve with the use of his left arm.

Legolas was again, running late, and for a while at least, he had the Elvenking's company all to himself.

"I am glad to see you well," Glorfindel told him, sincerely. "I've heard stories of your recent heroism."

"Thank you my lord," said Thranduil. "But it was a minor skirmish, nothing Legolas or our other soldiers do not suffer daily." At his son's name, he glanced at the empty seat, and then the door. "Let us eat. You know by now how he is."

They dined in companionable silence broken by occasional small talk. Legolas as running later than usual, if he meant to come at all. Thranduil's unease about that grew visibly along the course of the meal, until he picked up a discreet bell from beside him and shook it. One of their servers entered the king's chambers promptly with a bow.

"I would have you see where your Prince has gone," he told the elf, who scurried away quickly and do as he was bid.

"He must have other business," Glorfindel said tentatively.

"His business off the field is only whatever I deem it," Thranduil murmured, "He is supposed to be here. One must be vigilant with that boy, otherwise he..."

Thranduil's voice drifted. Glorfindel could guess the rest: he escapes.

Glorfindel had seen Legolas' steadily mounting restlessness about being cooped up the stronghold while in recovery, and the prince's occasional rebellion for the sake of what he perceived as his primary purpose was well-known. Thranduil going out and getting hurt the previous day could have buckled the final legs of his restraint. He could very well be out in the fray at that moment, fighting with his brothers-in-arms.

"Why do you not tell him of the weakness in his bones?" Glorfindel asked quietly. "Maybe he can be reasonable about resting for longer if he knew."

"I am maximizing what time his current patience can buy," Thranduil said, wryly, even his eyes were still worried about his son's current whereabouts. "When it is exhausted, I will tell him. The news should reignite his patience, give him a new reason to stay still, and there will be time anew. It will run out again of course, but by then I would have had a month or so of him resting here, I think. He should be recovered enough to travel with you to Imladris by that time, at which case the charge of keeping him reined in falls to you and Elrond."

"I should have known better what I was agreeing to," Glorfindel said.

Thranduil's lip quirked in mild appreciation of his bleak humor. "You should have."

A soft knock interrupted them, and it was Galion who strode in with a report. He had a long-suffering look on his face.

"The Prince Legolas is in his rooms, aran-nin," he said. He glanced uncertainly at the presence of Glorfidel, but Thranduil just nodded for him to continue. "He said to tell the Elvenking, with all due respect, that because he is apparently so very unwell, he would just have to rest in his rooms and excuse himself from dinner tonight. Ans perhaps, um, the next ones to follow."

Thrandul's lips quirked again, but impassively he said to his chief-of-staff, "Thank you, Galion. You may retire for the night."

When the loyal elf exited, he looked at Glorfindel with a feral smile and an irritated glint in his eye.

"I am being punished, I think," he said to the ancient warlord.

Glorfindel shook his head in amusement. "So it seems."

**# # #**

It was an exhilarating feeling, how power and pliability returns to a healing body. Like a long stretch after a restful sleep, a breath of fresh air that expands the lungs, and that moment a horse goes from canter to full speed across a wide plain toward a vast horizon.

Glorfindel felt renewed, as he held his sword aloft and sent it crashing down... he pulled his hit back. His sparring partner has had enough, and their referee called for the soldier to step back and make was for a quick replacement.

Glorfindel went at it again, barely missing a beat. The sheer supply of extremely competent soldiers they had in the Woodland was astounding, and one after another they came at Glorfindel in a seemingly endless stream.

He was clad only in an undershirt and boots and breeches; he had been hoping for a strenuous workout, and in all fairness to the wood-elves' attempts to satiate his appetite for action, he did sweat a little.

It was exhibition week finally, at which point the elves of Imladris were well-recovered and extremely eager to school their hosts of their own skills, and not just learn from them.

So far, the Imladrians have been an honor to their House, almost alternately besting and being bested by the folk of Eryn Galen.

They first sparred on rotations, with rounds dictating uniform weapons. They sparred in random pairs too, and were later classed according to skill level. Toward the end of the day, a free-style session was arranged, which allowed each combatant to pick the weapon they were most comfortable in and just go to town with it.

The training field became a spectacle for everyone in Thranduil's Halls, eventually drawing in the two royals, previously ensconced in administrative work that had just ended for the day. Their people made room for them right at the very front.

Glorfindel dispatched his opponent quickly, and excused himself from his referee to issue Thranduil and then Legolas slight bows of greeting. With the pause in combat, everyone around them did the same.

"A fine showing, my lord," Thranduil said. His face, Glorfindel noted, was studiously impassive. Legolas' beside him was pinched so tightly his jaw twitched.

Glorfidel recognized the feeling – the princeling was aching for action, and perhaps to show off his own skills too. They were, after all, all proud warriors here.

"Your soldiers are amongst the best fighters I have ever seen," Glorfindel told Thranduil earnestly. He'd bested everyone they set before him, but the claim was no less true. He'd been the victor in matches with warriors in Imladris, Lothlorien, and a host of others places too, so he recognized singukar qualities when he saw them.

"Our history has taught us the importance of training and preparation," Thranduil said. More lightly he added, "But it seems... no one's toppled you yet."

"I try my best so that it wouldn't come to that," Glorfindel said in jest, which the soldiers around them chuckled at it.

"I might be up to the challenge."

Heads swiveled Legolas' way. Thranduil's eyes widened at his son in wordless warning, but he was determinedly ignored.

"What of it, my lord?" Legolas asked Glorfindel.

The ancient warlord glanced at the stern-faced Thranduil.

"I serve at the mercy of our kind host," he said cautiously, and added in an attempt at levity – "After all, I've heard tell the Elvenking keeps expansive dungeons."

The spectators around them laughed, but Legolas and Thranduil were oblivious to it. From the corner of Glorfindel's eye, he could see Galion beating a hasty exit from Thranduil's side – to summon the healer Maenor, if he was as smart as Glorfindel suspected. There was a possibility Legolas would get hurt in the sparring, just as there was a possibility he would hurt someone if he was not allowed to fight, just as there was a possibility Thranduil would throttle whoever harmed his son.

_Galion is a wise and loyal elf_, Glorfindel thought wryly.

"I regret to say _ernil-nin_ is still in convalescent status," Thranduil said to the now-hushed, eager crowd. "It would not be in his best interest, nor would it be the best display for our people."

Legolas was not going to be swayed, and Glorfindel saw it in the young elf's eyes – that he would push his father publicly and into compliance.

"Ah but it is all friendly, is it not?" Legolas said, feigning lightness, even while his fey eyes glinted. "I am healing and the Lord Glorfindel must be tired from already facing off against so many of our fine soldiers. I would call that an even match. And I am sure none of us would really wish harm upon each other."

Thranduil glared at his son, clearly asking him to stand down. Legolas blinked at him innocently. Glorfndel, amusing as all this was, mostly wished he was elsewhere, while the two elves battled wills and tested each other's limits.

Thranduil obviously did not want any harm to come to Legolas, but he was also the Elvenking, and the father of the grandson of Oropher; this meant that while he valued Legolas' body, he also valued Legolas' reputation and standing amongst the people he was expected to govern. If Legolas pushed this more, he would force Thranduil's hand into letting him spar. Thranduil would not embarrass his son by making him appear weak in so public a setting, nor did he want to risk a more open defiance on Legolas' part that would necessitate a punishment. It was a complex relationship, that which this father and son had between each other. They walked so many lines that the complexity even extended to the identities they held within themselves - was Thranduil a father or king first? And on the other hand, how far would Legolas dare to rebel in front of his father's people?

_Remind me never to have children_, Glorfindel thought wryly.

"Maybe we can all stand down for I am tired," Glorfindel said, giving everyone a convenient way out at small cost to his vanity –

"Since when?" Legolas snapped, looking at him knowingly.

"I have a better idea," Thranduil proclaimed, and he started divesting himself of his robes to the delight of his people. They started cheering the moment it became clear Thranduil their king himself would be sparing against the Balrog Slayer.

Thranduil was quickly encircled by some of his courtiers to help him with his elaborate robes. A peevish Legolas shouldered his way past them, away from the spectacle of his father. He ended up standing beside Glorfindel.

"Interestingly," Glorfindel murmured at him, "You two are so determined to fight me and yet no one's really asked me."

Legolas' eyes slanted his way, and for a long moment he said nothing and just contemplated Glorfindel. His face softened, as if he was suddenly struck by an idea.

"I ache to fight," Legolas admitted. "And I am certain I am able. I am being held back unjustly and I do not know why – yet. I will find out soon enough. In the meantime, I suppose there is an opportunity here for something I also need."

"What would that be?"

"You're not planning on holding back on _adar_, are you?" Legolas asked.

"Should I?"

Legolas smiled grimly at that. "By protocol, _adar_ and I are not to share the same battles. We are not even allowed travel together. I told you we've been beheaded before, so our people holds security of succession to extreme priority. It might surprise you then, that I've not seen my father truly fight. They say he is... sublime. I would never wish to see him in earnest action, for it would be a dire situation indeed, if the time comes that we should draw arms together. I do not wish to see it. But I feel I have to, for the sake of my heart. I will leave soon, and he would feel compelled to venture out. He has already started because I am malingering here. I need to see he is as good as they say. I need to see it. You will help me. Go hard at him, my lord. Give no quarter, show no mercy, let us see what he is really made of."

"Are you trying to get me killed, princeling?"

Legolas shook his head dismissively at any form of levity. "My lord... if the king should spar with his people, they will hold back and not harm him, even if they had the skills to which I verily doubt. If I sparred with him, he will be the one to hold back and not harm me. But you will be his ideal test. You have both the skill and objectivity to do what I need you to do. Do not pull your punches for him, and he will not do it for you. I will see with my own eyes that he is ready for my absence. I want you to conjure it, the incarnation of my father that is invulnerable."

"Legolas," Glorfindel hesitated. "No one is invulnerable, especially in this day and age. And no matter how good he is, you will always worry for him, just as he does for you no matter your prowess. That is... that is just the nature of loving."

Legolas shook his head dismissively again. "Forget I said anything then, my lord. I think you will fight to win anyway. You seem the type to."

"I do hate losing," Glorfindel concede wryly.

"Well that is all I ask."

**# # #**

No one even bothered suggesting wooden or dulled sparring knives for Thranduil and Glorfindel.

The two golden elves – both dressed down in their loose white undershirts, breeches and boots now – went straight for their weapons of choice. Both bore named blades, these timeless swords that have been weathered by time and washed in the blood of countless felled enemies.

"First blood?" Thranduil asked mildly, of the bounds of the contest and who would be declared winner. They circled each other warily, even now.

Glorfindel shook his head. That would be too fast, too easy and frankly, too motivating – nothing fired him up quite like someone sneaking a hit on him, and he had a feeling Thranduil was the same.

"Disarming?" he suggested instead.

It was Thranduil's turn to disagree, which Glorfindel felt comfortable with as well. It meant this fight could go on without weapons, and that could go to fists.

"Surrender?" their chosen referee suggested, which both Thranduil and Glorfindel scoffed at. Neither of them would ever do that.

"First to three simulated fatal wounds!" Legolas called out authoritatively from the surrounding spectators. "Neck, heart, gut. No holds barred."

Glorfindel nodded in satisfaction. The winner would be whoever it was between them that can make fake strikes to the said three body parts. Thranduil also acquiesced.

"It is settled then," said their officiant. "If you are ready _aran-nin, hir-nin_."

Both warriors gave him a solemn nod.

The referee lifted his hands for them to get ready, and lowered it to unleash them. He wisely stepped away to give them a wide, _wide_ berth.

**# # #**

_Sublime_, Legolas had said.

The last time Glorfindel had seen Thranduil fight was from another age. He had been gifted even then – there was a reason he survived where many of his people, including his father Oropher, did not. Glorfindel remembered he was a patient fighter, still and steady, conservative of energy and power. Once unleashed though, his moves were a concentration of strength; he delivered them in heavy but single, lethal doses, these pure, distilled, perfect blows. He wasted nothing.

Glorfindel doubted he would have changed much; Thranduil was not much for change. Both his fighting style and his politics were about conservation and endurance.

Glorfindel tested the waters though, just in case. He made the first attacks – small, playful blows meant to tease and lure out some of his opponent's quirks. Thranduil defended himself casually, almost dismissively, barely moving. It was designed to bait the opponent into recklessness; he was a politician in the fighting field too.

Glorfindel smiled to himself, deciding right away that This is going to be enjoyable.

They circled each other, though Glorfindel was doing most of the walking as they traded blows and parries. They were clashing swords so quickly he sound of the blades were a continuous tinkling.

Thranduil had a strange stance, Glorfindel noted – he wasn't quite looking directly in his opponent's direction. The ancient warlord surmised it was because the Elvenking was relying on his other senses, his hearing perhaps. Glorfindel thought he saw a blind spot; somewhere to Thranduil's peripheral vision, a spot he could attack from an elevation.

He was quickly proven wrong when he made the first serious strike of the match.

Glorfindel shot sideways and up, but Thranduil was ready. The Elvenking whirled at an angle so unlikely, that Glorfindel had to adjust in a counterintuitive manner. He landed awkwardly, and Thranduil took proper advantage.

His blade kissed the flesh at the flesh beneath Glorfindel's chin.

"Neck!" Thranduil proclaimed, to the cheers of his people.

"Neck," the official confirmed, separating the fighters before raising his hand and lowering it to signal the beginning of another round.

Glorfindel was unfazed – it was early in the sparring yet, with the goal being first to three strikes. Besides, his loss gave him valuable information on his opponent's method. Thranduil was looking at his feet, and Glorfindel wondered at that intuition. The feet, after all, gave clues on the other fighter's intentions and capabilities. Thranduil knew what Glorfindel was going to do, and had that microsecond of warning when Glorfindel prepared to execute his move and pressed from the ground. By looking at Glorfindel's feet, Thranduil also likely knew how to make Glorfindel's landing a bad one.

_Intriguing_, Glorfindel noted, _but workable_.

He adjusted by faking movement on his lower body. Usually, fakes were accomplished from the upper, but the experiment proved fruitful to Glorfindel. He landed the tip of his sword to the spot over Thranduil's heart; eliciting gasps from their Silvan audience and applause from the Rivendell elves.

"Heart," Glorfindel declared. From the corner of his eye, he could see Thranduilion stiffen and his nostrils flare. His hands were fisted at his sides. His father had won the first hit, but Glorfindel reckoned he would mostly remember this one.

_That is the nature of loving…_

"Heart!" acknowledged the official, who again came between the two fighters. Glorfindel drew away his sword from Thraduil's chest and stepped back.

As they both prepared their stances again, Thranduil gave Glorfindel am appreciative sneer. He knew his trick had been discovered but at the same time it was a warning – he had more.

They circled each other again – one-all, now, it was a new beginning. As they stared at each other though, they somehow came to a wordless agreement. Where the first assaults had been clever, in this one, they came at each other in a frontal assault, at full-strength. This time, when the blades clashed they did so with a single, mighty clang followed by a grave silence, as strength pushed against strength.

It was at that moment that the head of the healing halls, Lord Maenor, ran frantically into the training fields.

"Halt!" the official called out. The two fighters, well-experienced and perfect in their awareness and restraint, responded quickly. They pushed away from each other and adopted relaxed stances as they looked at the new arrival. They even tilted their heads at him in the same curious way.

Maenor hastily bowed at Thranduil, and then Legolas, whose spectator stance caught him by surprise. He blinked before turning to issue the final bow to Glorfindel.

"_Aran-nin_," he said breathlessly, "I apologize for the disruption. I was informed my services might be needed here."

His interruption was met with good-natured jeers and booing, but he looked at the fighters sternly. Glorfindel believed Galion must have sent for the healer here for Legolas, but Maenor's displeasure was fixated on Glorfindel alone.

"If I may speak freely, Elvenking."

"By all means."

"My Lord Glorfindel," he said, exasperatedly. "I cleared you for exercise and sparring, not... not... not mortal combat!"

"While I appreciate your concern," Glorfindel said lightly, "I doubt your king could have killed me."

"I got him at the neck though," Thranduil said mildly.

"I meant by intent, not ability," Glorfindel countered. "And I got you to the heart."

Maenor sighed, looking at the two golden elves and then their apprehensive third - Legolas, whose jaws were still set.

"Neck, heart, gut?" Maenor guessed miserably. "You would risk a gut hit on a soldier who was on convalescent status for weeks because of near-disembowelment?"

"Put that way," Glorfindel said, "it does sound like an exercise of poor judgment."

"A fair point," Thranduil said wryly. He turned to the match official. "Call it a draw for now."

Thus did the show end for the day. While the crowd around them was disappointed at the abrupt conclusion and open-endedness, the match gave them such an exchange as they have never seen before. The soldiers and spectators dispersed upon dismissal by their king, and chatted excitedly amongst themselves.

"We will do that again," Thranduil said to Glorfindel, earnestly. He looked flushed and alive, more aglow and animated than Glorfindel had ever seen him. He wondered if he looked the same; it was exhilarating to find someone who could fight at this level. The moment realization hit that one had found a match, the connection was immediate. There were few who could breathe this rarefied air.

Glorfindel bowed slightly in acknowledgment. But he also understood it was a polite dismissal, especially with Legolas wound so tightly on the sidelines, waiting for a chance to confront his father.

Glorfindel walked away from the training fields with his soldiers. They left Thranduil, Legolas and Maenor behind to fight their own battles.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	9. Forces of Nature

_ Hello everyone!_

_Sorry for the late update. This chap (and a few others) has been done for weeks but I am trying to pace. RL probably also means RelentLess, lol. I can't respond to reviews yet, but please note each one is read and cherished and they really, really help me keep up with this so THANK YOU. Without further ado:_

# # #

**9: Forces of Nature**

# # #

_Mirkwood, T.A. 2851_

# # #

Dinner that night was a solitary affair.

A tray was brought into Glorfindel's quarters instead, at what would have been the time Galion usually fetched him for dinner with Thranduil and Legolas.

Not that he minded much – he'd long known how to be comfortable being by himself in any situation. He just wondered if it was because the time had finally come, that Thranduil and Maenor finally told their restless charge why he was being sidelined from action.

He ate in peace, pondering a miscellany of things about life here thus far. They've stayed for over a month now, recuperating, learning, training. They found their Silvan brothers led a curious existence, and there would be much to tell Elrond and the White Council when the time came for him to be debriefed.

The matter of greatest urgency for the Council was of course, intelligence information on Dol Guldur. But it seemed that Thranduil and his people were living on subsistence information here – they had too much to deal with just surviving, that organized incursions into that fell place just for reconnaissance was not amongst their priorities. It was a danger to the wider world at any rate, and going there would be too costly for a single people to bear. Why should they risk their own extinction?

Glorfindel finished his meal, and began to structure his report in his head. The wizards Gandalf and Saruman had been at odds about the proper course of action when it came to Dol Guldur and whatever seemed to be dwelling there. He had to tread lightly; it did not escape his notice that when Elrond had sent him to Mirk- that is to say, _Eryn Galen_ – he did not align it with the wizards. Nor did he coordinate with his mother-in-law, Glorfindel remembered dryly; Galadriel was sometimes unpredictable, and tended to lean on Gandalf's side. There were things perhaps, that the elves of Rivendell just had to find out for themselves.

He gathered his tray, and thought it would be proper to bring it out his door for a server to collect, so that they would know he was done and not have to knock upon his door later that night.

Glorfindel rose to his feet. He maneuvered the heavily-laden tray – too much for one person to eat, really – and managed to open his door and brace it. He was just about to call for a guard or server, when he came upon a strange sight on the otherwise empty hallway.

"Are you going to make a habit of this, Legolas?" came a familiar grunt, and Glorfindel's eyes widened when he spotted the bleary Woodland Prince being carried by that giant Silvan of his again.

_Drunk_.

They were in the company of Legolas' loyal second, Silon, who was patting at their _ernil's_ clothes apparently in search of keys to his locked chambers.

"The whole of our youth you were a bloody saint," Silon berated him too, just under the breath. "Where the heck in all of Arda are your keys? Rossenith can't keep those fools occupied forever."

Glorfindel craned his neck a little for a better view 'round the curving bend of the wide, long halls. He couldn't see them from his angle, but now that he knew to pay attention, he could feel and hear the hallway guards' heightened emotions and the fetching _elleth_ trying to nervously distract them.

"We can't protect your dignity if you do not have a care for it, you know," Silon told his prince. "What would the _great_ Captain Tauriel think if she saw you like this, eh? Legolas – the damn keys, at least?"

Legolas shrugged at them, and raised his head in notice of Glorfindel. He gave the ancient warlord a cheery wave.

"Oh for the love of the gods!" hissed Renior.

Glorfindel pondered his options, then sighed and motioned for the three younger soldier elves to enter his chambers.

Silon and Renior hesitated, but with sneaking around and time so tight, and no apparent objection from their prince, they made a decision.

"He's seen us already anyway," Silon said and with that, they scrambled over. Glorfindel let them in, and closed the doors discreetly behind them.

The two elves settled Legolas onto a divan by the fireplace in Glorfindel's sitting room. The prince sighed contentedly at the landing, and burrowed into the fur throws and pillows there. He swatted away at his friends' efforts to release one of the throws he had lain on to use as a blanket, and he kicked at their attempts to remove his boots. They muttered at him in Silvan disapproval but duly backed away.

"I will watch him," Silon said to Renior quietly, not even bothering to ask Glorfindel permission to stay. The ancient warlord understood; it was Silon's job to look after his prince when the prince was vulnerable.

"Take Lord Glorfindel's tray out with you," Silon added, nodding at the tray Glorfindel had abandoned. "It is excellent reason for being here when you are spotted by the guards exiting. And try and find those keys wherever he may have left them."

Renior nodded, and gave a quick bow to Glorfindel before doing as he was told. When he left, the chamber of rooms fell to a hushed silence. Silon made sure the fireplace was well-stoked, while Glorfindel went to his sleeping quarters and grabbed a pillow and two blankets from his bed. When he returned to the sitting room, he found Silon had taken a chair beside the divan Legolas was sleeping on.

The loyal second looked up at Glorfindel's arrival, and held the ancient warlord's gaze as Glorfindel walked to him with his armload of goods to share. Silon's hair was a dark, dark gold, and it looked molten and coppery in the room's dancing firelight, as aflame as his sharp hazel eyes. He had rougher features than his prince, this fire to Legolas' ice. But beneath the outward conflagration was still steadfastness... also the opposite to the simmering, tossing undertow that plagued Legolas beneath the placid surface.

"Thank you my lord," he told Glorfindel, rising to receive the blankets. He loosened them and noticed there was two. He handed the other back to Glorfindel, who declined it.

"That one is for you."

Silon shook it at him. "I do not want to impose."

Glorfindel looked at him with warm amusement. "I think that ship has sailed."

Silon appreciated the humor and smiled slightly. "My lord, this is my Prince's house. As far as I can see, he can enter any door in any state and commandeer any comfort be requires. But for myself, I do not wish to be more of a burden to you than I have to."

"Fair enough," Glorfindel said. "But I insist." He left the blanket in Silon's hands, and lowered the pillow he held to Silon's chair too, with finality.

"You are kind," Silon said quietly, with a soft smile. He had such an earnest gaze, an open face – a _fea _worn on the sleeve in a way, telling everything. His gratitude for so small a deed by Glorfindel was outsize. His love for Legolas was just as apparent.

Silon lowered his blanket to the same chair and hovered over his prince with the other. "Legolas. It is just Silon," he declared loudly. "Don't um, stab me or anything like that."

It was an intriguing warning, and so Glorfindel stuck around to see what would come of it all.

Silon lowered the blanket over his friend, who jerked awake at the contact of the fabric on his skin. He lashed out with his right hand, but Silon was prepared and caught him by the wrist. Silon did not catch the left hand that snuck to his neck, however. Thankfully, it was Legolas who caught himself.

Legolas' grip over Silon's neck landed lightly rather than lethally, and it snaked to pat at his loyal second-in-command's cheek as he opened his eyes. His gaze was clouded heavily by drink and the misery it somehow could still not drown.

"Back to sleep, Legolas," Silon said softly. "It is safe. You are in Lord Glorfindel's rooms."

Legolas smiled slowly, indulgently. As his eyes slipped close he murmured, "Well there are certainly worse places to be."

# # #

Glorfindel did not think Silon would be sleeping anytime soon, so he offered his unexpected guest a cup of tea. The Mirk- that is to say, _Eryn Galen_ – soldier accepted it gladly.

Glorfindel prepared it in offices adjacent to the sitting room, so as not to disturb Legolas's sleep in any way. Silon trailed after him to the door, where he stood to be able to keep watch of his prince while making himself available to the ancient warlord in case he needed help. Mostly though, all Glorfindel wanted was quiet conversation.

"Your people displayed incredible skills with me earlier today," he said. "I meant what I said to your king – you are amongst the best individual fighters I've ever seen, in all my ages of life. Perhaps even the best, collectively speaking."

Silon's face flushed with embarrassed pleasure; he really was somewhat transparent. But he covered it up with a lighthearted question, "Who does the Lord Glorfindel find better than us, if I may ask? Aside from the Lord Glorfindel himself, of course."

Glorfindel chuckled, denied nothing. He steeped the tea. "I wouldn't say better exactly, but certainly amongst the best - you should see the sons of Elrond."

"How does my lord Legolas compare?"

"I actually have no recollection of seeing your prince fight," Glorfindel admitted. "When your patrol came for our rescue, I was halfway gone. He and I have been mostly cooped up in here since, as you know."

"He will take your breath away," Silon said, and even at just the memory his breath sounded stolen indeed. "I cannot say enough good things to describe it. He is..." He scrambled for a suitable description anyway, and Glorfindel could almost see the words flashing past his eyes, how he would discard them in search of something better, something grander.

"He called his father's fighting style 'sublime,'" Glorfindel said, in an attempt to help.

Silon shook his head. "Sublime implies a kind of... a kind of purity to excellence, a transcendent perfection, a, well, a _haughtiness_. Something detached, otherworldly. Legolas does not fight like that. There is... fallibility, I think. The occasional recklessness, but one he always survives because of unimaginably quick reaction and innovative correction. It makes him unpredictable. Gods, it is glorious but how he drove our trainers mad – the style is not for everyone. And while he remains excellent, the full breadth of what he is capable of is stifled in group formations. You see, he does not seek control of the environment, he controls only himself. He is..." his eyes lit up. "A force of nature."

"You admire him."

Something streaked over Silon's eyes, feelings quickly concealed though he wasn't very good at it. "Admire," he murmured. "_Admire. _That is a small word..."

Glorfindel let the weighty silence hang long between them. He handed the younger soldier a steaming cup of tea and watched his expressive face. He'd sensed a deep love here, but he wondered now - _what kind?_ And how could such a thing live beneath the tension Glorfindel previously felt between Legolas and Tauriel?

_Love?_ thrived and grew in different ways, he supposed. There was the mighty unmissable one, like a tall tree with a wide canopy, reaching for the skies and casting a shade on everything. But there was also the one that burrowed deep and stretched wide like roots, beneath the sun and grounded in the soil, making its own inroads, thriving in its own ecosystem. And there were a myriad of variations and gradients in between.

"Thank you my lord," Silon said in acceptance, finding in the mundane, a much stronger voice, a surer footing. "Everyone admires Legolas. If you see him fight, you will too."

"I already do admire him," Glorfindel admitted, "for other reasons."

Silon grinned at him, and he looked like a satisfied child, as if with that one proclamation, Silon had accepted Glorfindel into his fold. To admire his _ernil _was the only apparent qualification.

"Really? Without seeing him fight?"

"He is dutiful," Glorfindel said. "He is self-sacrificing. He holds his people above himself. He is intelligent and hardworking. He has imagination and accountability. He is also brave enough to face up to the orc as well as his father."

Silon laughed, and placed a hand over his mouth when Legolas stirred.

"Duty, vision, integrity and courage," Glorfindel concluded quietly, "What is not to admire?"

"I could do with a bit less of the self-sacrificing to be honest," said Silon. He looked at Glorfindel thoughtfully. "I understand you are aware of his... situation."

Glorfindel glanced at the drunken Legolas, still very much asleep. "Is that the impetus for this unfortunate showing? He'd finally been told about the risks he faces?"

Silon hit his lip in thought and nodded to himself as he came to some unknown decision. "It is not my place to speak of that which burdens his heart. But I cannot let it pass, that you should think my prince so petty as to indulge himself like this over a matter of a delay in recovery. My lord... he understands he is unwell and he knows what that means for his job. He grieves something else." He paused, and made a gesture of respect and prayer Glorfindel had seen here before.

"One of our soldiers was taken alive today."

Glorfindel nodded solemnly. He wondered what the proper words were, in a situation where condolences were too early but hope and action were also too late. He said nothing.

The two elves drifted back toward the sitting room, and Silon looked down at his sleeping prince with a strange combination of sadness and fondness.

"For all the instability you have brought," Silon murmured at Glorfindel, "I am still heartily glad you are here, my lord."

Glorfindel waited for the reason why, and Silon did not disappoint.

"Do you know the saying, about that tree in the forest?"

"If a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears the sound or some such thing?" Glorfindel asked, remembering the philosophical riddle. If a tree fell in the middle of the forest and no one heard it, did it make a sound? Does the perception of others equate to existence?

"We've been falling for some time now," Silon said softly. "Now someone hears. Now someone knows. Now someone will do something about it or the very least - remember."

# # #

Glorfindel retired for the night in his sleeping chambers. He closed the door not for privacy for himself, but for his two guests. Silon looked grateful for it, with that naked face of his.

He laid in bed for an indeterminate time, and was stirred to rise at the sound of distress from beyond his doors. He hesitated, for there was a low moan of such _agony_.

He stayed where he was, and heard Silon attempt to shush his prince back to sleeping.

But Legolas could not be immediately consoled. He said that refrain again, the ones Glorfindel had heard in the healing halls. Their enemies were getting away. Let him up. Let him up...

"Rest easy, Legolas," Silon whispered to him fervently. "You are not out there."

A long pause of remembrance of the here and now, before a ragged whisper – "I should have been."

"You couldn't have done anything," Silon said.

"You know that is a lie," came the harsh, breathless retort. "I could have eased him on his way..."

Glorfindel closed his eyes at a prick on his heart. He realized again how alien these people were to him, how strange, how the lenses by which they looked at their world was different from his own... for Legolas was in grief not only because their soldier was taken, but because he had failed to end the other's misery.

Glorfindel knew already that Legolas punished himself for the elves he'd killed. He did not know there was also guilt for those he could not. The Woodland Prince was effectively crucifying himself for both commission and omission of killing.

It was... a heck of a place to be stuck in, between rocks and hard places. No wonder the very bones of him were breaking.

Glorfindel left the two elves alone and he returned to his bed, not that there was much rest to be found there.

# # #

The elven prince and his stalwart second-in-command were gone by the time Glorfindel emerged from his sleeping quarters. But Legolas had left behind what Glorfindel assumed to be either a gift of gratitude or apology: a well-worn book of Woodland songs. It was translated from an archaic Silvan to Sindarin, in a makeshift wrapper of clean healing linens and a ribbon of sturdy twine of the same make as that which bound a wood-elf warrior's braids.

There was a stray strand of smooth, fine gold on it, of the same make as that which crowns the head of the young elf to whom the book had previously belonged.

Glorfindel plucked at it, but found himself unable to dust the wayward strand of hair away. He tucked it instead between the pages of the book.

# # #

The next time he saw Silon and Legolas was at the common hall for breakfast. It was quite somber given the recent loss of their comrade, whose name Glorfindel discovered to be Rochanar.

Rochanar had three sons, two of soldiering age and a young one on the brink of majority. The two soldiers were in the mess hall. Though likely excused from duties for bereavement, they were there in their uniforms, surrounded by their comrades. Their friends have closed ranks on them, keeping them company, keeping their plates and glasses filled, keeping the occasional moments of silence filled with mindless chatter about other things.

Across the roomful of people, he found the elven prince's blue, blue eyes. Legolas murmured orders to Silon, then left him and walked toward Glorfindel, bearing a plate. When he arrived at the ancient warlord's side, Glorfindel noticed his plate was occupied only by a single slice of lembas.

"Is that all you ever eat?" Glorfindel said with disdain.

"One seldom needs much more than this," Legolas said with a shrug.

They found seats together. It was a shared table, but all its other occupants bowed respectfully at the pair of decorated commanders and scurried away with their trays and half-finished food.

Legolas munched at his food, chewing carefully every single small bite.

"I am sorry about the... abduction... of your soldier," Glorfindel said.

Legolas gave him a solemn nod. "It occurs once in a while."

Glorfindel hesitated. "So what happens now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you know if he is dead?" Glorfindel asked. "And in cases like this, how and when can you grieve?"

"His patrol reported he was seriously injured but taken alive," said Legolas. "I pray his hurts take him quickly, or he finds a way to handle things himself. But his children insist they sense he still lives." He gave the elf before him a long, thoughtful stare. "_Aran-nin_ told me that when he told you one of your soldiers had died, you knew right away which one."

"I did..."

"And when we met in the field," Legolas added, "I felt your _fea_... _reach_ for me. You can stretch your soul outward, couldn't you my lord, know things that are otherwise beyond common knowing?"

Glorfindel guessed where this line of questioning was headed. "We are all connected by the music of the gods. I knew the sound of Nestadis in that great chorus well, and so I felt its silence as the song went on. But there are infinite strands to that orchestra. You I reached for easily because of physical proximity and perhaps, familiarity. I recognized your father and your grandfather in you.

"I think I understand the line of your thoughts," Glorfindel continued. "You wish for me to stretch my senses and see if the soldier Rochanar is still alive, and in what state. I do not have that ability. If sensing souls is a power, then I can only claim the barest understanding of the workings of it. I can seek only that which I know to seek and unfortunately, I do not know him."

Legolas finished with his food, and drummed his long, graceful fingers absently on the table. "Would knowing his wife and children help? Would touching his things, listening to stories told by his friends..."

Glorfindel shook his head sadly. "I will try everything you might ask but I cannot hope to achieve much. I would not even trust what I can sense. My sight - so to speak for _fea_ is transcendent of specific senses - is not as long and wide as a wizard's. I dare not declare he is dead and for all hope to be lost. If I was wrong and he wasted away there I couldn't bear it. But to issue false hope with the converse... it is almost as bad."

Legolas chewed at his lip and nodded in both understanding, and in a quiet decision. "You are right. What would we do with such information anyways? Mount an ill-advised rescue? Or, place his family at the untenable position of begging for one, and forcing _aran-nin_ to deny them? He is lost to us, whether he is alive or dead. The outcome is the same. But at least in doing nothing, more of us stay alive."

"Hypothetically speaking," Glorfindel said, "how would this so-called 'ill-advised rescue' be conducted?"

"Now I know _your_ line of thought," said Legolas. "You are trying to soften my view to other possibilities. You want me to see the potential of mounting rescues and preferring captivity to death."

"What does it matter what I am trying to do?" Glorfindel argued, "You are already sure you are right. Indulge me, _ernil_."

Legolas' gaze sharpened, and Glorfindel could almost hear the gears turning in his head.

"He would be taken to Dol Guldur," Legolas said. "If you know your history, you will remember we had fortifications around there before we drove northwards, when it was Amon Lanc. There are still elves in my father's halls who would have good memories of the area, folks who might even know its secret, winding ways. The enemy would have made changes by now, but they settled there because there were foundations in place, foundations they might not have altered much. A person who is well-versed in Amon Lanc might be able to navigate it still."

"You would include one or two such people amongst your chosen team."

"Yes," Legolas replied. "Two – repetition of this expertise is important, in case you lose someone along the way. But the group would otherwise be small and stealthy. We don't want open confrontation in an extraction of this nature. We go by foot, minimal armor, minimal weaponry, we scavenge supplies on the road – the objective is speed and silence. We go off the old paths and into the trees."

Glorfindel had seen these wood-elves descend from the trees firsthand – they were like ghosts in the wood, until they were unmissable in their lethality. The plan actually sounded possible.

"You bring an experienced field medic," said Glorfindel, "for you cannot possibly hope to find your prisoner in any militarily functional state. But that is the main problem, isn't it- the getting out. Anyone can get into a prison, but how can you get out with someone unwell?"

"Our forest is a rich land," Legolas said carefully, "even in its beleaguered state, the foliage is diverse. There are... certain plants where one can extract certain compounds that provide the body with untold reserves."

"This was not in Rossenith's class," Glorfindel said wryly.

"There is more to her than meets the eye," Legolas said. "Where else do you think I acquired my poison seeds from? She is clever with flora. You should ask her one day, about this poison garden she keeps."

"You compare this energetic stimulant with poison?" asked Glorfindel.

"They are hardly ideal for the health," Legolas said. "Too much is lethal. But a pinch here or there during a desperate situation, and one gets to wherever one needs to go somehow."

"Like _miruvor_?"

"In a sense," Legolas said. "But far, far more potent. The half dead can fight as if twice alive, if you get my meaning. Unfortunately, the come down is pure misery. And they are uh, habit forming."

"So you think you can get an injured soldier on his feet with this?"

"Almost with certainty," Legolas said. "Assuming he still has feet..." he shook his head at the brutal thought, "With strength that should hold for a few precious hours. Enough to attempt escape with."

Glorfindel frowned. The plan actually sounded possible. It was so possible he'd swear it could be done tomorrow. Either that or... that it had been done before.

"You've done this before."

"I lost a brother this way," came the quick, quiet response.

He looked away, and Glorfindel was glad for it. He did not have the stomach for what he might see in the other's eyes after so jarring a revelation. Torturous pain was the expectation, but even more sickening would be the quick camouflage of it.

"I did tell you," said Legolas, "our standard practices are backed by experience. The things we know are hard-won."

TO BE CONTINUED...


	10. Inches and Miles

_**hello everyone!**_

_ Thanks to all who are still with me on this, even with posting so delayed with the previous Chapter 9. My schedule is still unforgiving, but I need a bit of a creative jolt and thought posting could help me and also be a way to thank everyone reading along with me on this tale. I really value your time and if you can spare them via a review, your thoughts as well. Cs are always welcome, and I still owe review responses. Until then - I hope you enjoy the read as mych as I enjoy the writing :) Have a great week, all! Without further ado:_

# # #

**10: Inches and Miles **

# # #

_Eryn Galen, T.A. 2851_

# # #

Another day, another exhibition.

Glorfindel was surprised to walk into the training fields with Legolas already there, dressed in his combat browns-and-greens. He had his bow and arrows with him, and a small posse comprising of non-combatants: elves from the armory, the quartermaster's office, and because Legolas was there, an anxious Silon, and a scowling Maenor.

It was a minor ruckus, but he looked like the calm at the eye of a storm – casually powerful in his warrior's wares, more relaxed in his uniform than Glorfindel had seen him even resting on his bed. It looked like his true skin. He looked strong and aglow - deceptively recovered. Daunting, even. No wonder he was always eager to go out to the fight and until now, most of the people around him let him.

Legolas turned Glorfindel's way – the first to see him. Often lately, Glorfindel realized now – the first to see him.

Legolas excused himself from his company to meet with Glorfindel and the group of Imladris warriors who followed him. They nodded to each other in greeting, reserving the bows for now, what with every one of them being in military clothing.

"Will you be joining us today, Legolas?" Glorfindel asked, finding he both dreaded a "yes" that would endanger the prince, but was also eager to finally see the decorated warrior in action.

"Alas that privilege falls to someone else," Legolas answered. "You will be battling Renior. He lets us use him as _uruk _surrogate. He has their bulk, pretends to fight in their style and uses their weaponry. Most useful in training. I am here for another purpose."

Glorfindel glanced behind him at the group Legolas had left behind. "Is that purpose to aggravate half your kingdom's population?"

"Only by incident," Legolas conceded drily. "I've been inactive too long, and am losing muscle mass."

"Too much bread?"

Legolas snorted at him. "I prevailed upon, well – _everyone_ \- to let me at least practice some shooting. No contact combat for me yet. But light exercises, and testing some of our archery innovations seems a decent compromise."

"I would love to see you shoot," Glorfindel said.

"Stick around then my lord," Legolas said breezily, "you might learn a thing or two."

Glorfindel chuckled. "I do not doubt it."

**# # #**

But Legolas, Glorfindel found, had been teasing but not exaggerating.

While the drills and sparring with Renior were challenging and fascinating, at some point everyone just put down their weapons to watch Thranduil's son with his weapon of choice.

Glorfindel, in all his lives, had never seen the equal of it – there was form, yes, there was strength, speed and precision too. But most astounding was the almost mechanical mastery of it. Even the engineers, who measured Legolas' movements and made notations on their papers, marveled and murmured excitedly at every shot fired with quantitative consistency. Legolas' arrows hit the bullseye every time, and the shots that followed would split the shafts that preceded them.

He tried out different shafts at different distances, occasionally making observations with his armorers – commenting on the nock, the texture of the shaft, the resistance from the fletching, the weight of the head. He operated with complete conviction, a master at work comfortable in his expertise. He was, Glorfindel thought, _magnificent_.

Legolas hesitated only once, and glanced in the direction of the Imladris elves who were watching him, as riveted as everyone else. Glorfindel realized why quickly – Legolas picked up Nestadis' bow next. All of Glorfindel's comrades recognized it, and he felt them take an almost simultaneous, collective breath.

Legolas paired it with a different shaft – apparently a recent invention. He released it soundlessly, and its path to the target had never been more fast or true.

The weapon was silent - not even making a whisper or a hiss - but it certainly sang in his hands. It was pure, perfect.

But it was also, inextricably, Nestadis' weapon in the hands of her killer. It was a sobering thought, and none of the Imladris elves knew what to make of it, or understood what it meant to the prince or even to themselves.

Legolas glanced at them uncertainly, almost shyly, and Glorfindel was reminded again of just how young he still was.

Legolas took a quiver of the fresh shafts from one of the armorers, and he walked with them and Nestadis' bow in his hands – toward the Imladris elves.

Glorfindel's body stiffened, and while he had every faith his men would not defy him or shame their party by being overtly antagonistic to the prince, he was not sure how else they would respond... Or if they would give Legolas whatever absolution he was looking for here.

Glorfindel had long given his... forgiveness was too lofty a word, too detached, coming from too high a place looking down. He'd long given his _understanding_, perhaps was more accurate to say. But he'd given it because he had seen firsthand how the princeling suffered. He did not know what his soldiers saw, and he couldn't force them to have compassion – that would have to be freely given. Glorfindel could only hold his breath, and pray the gods would give this young elf some form of reprieve today.

_Let my people be a reason Legolas thanks the gods today_, Glorfindel implored whoever was listening from the distant heavens. _Let my people be wise and have compassion. Let us be a light to those who suffer. Use us and through us, ease the burdens of one of your most giving servants. _

The prince gave them a low bow that the Imladrians were too stunned to return. He offered them Nestadis' weapon and the fully-loaded quiver earnestly.

"This is a fine weapon," he said quietly. "Your soldier kept it well. There is excellent craftsmanship from its makers, but also apparent devotion and care from she who wielded it. My people have crafted shafts to maximize the potential of this excellent instrument. It would honor us if you can see how the shafts work for you. If they are acceptable, more will be made and provided."

He waited earnestly, and Glorfindel imagined it must have felt like forever. The wait was certainly long enough that Glorfindel was sorely tempted to reach for the offerings and knock Legolas out of his misery. But he wanted to see what his soldiers would do and he suspected Legolas did too.

It was his second-in-command who stepped forward. Istor bowed before Legolas as well, and reverently accepted the quiver of arrows. The bow he touched and held tightly over Legolas' hand, then released and left it there.

"We will put these arrows to good use, _ernil_," he proclaimed. "And we thank you for them."

The other elves bowed too, and while Legolas returned the gesture, he confusedly still hung onto Nestadis' bow.

With a nod of dismissal, Glorfindel wordlessly instructed his soldiers to return to their workouts, and addressed Legolas' curious look at him.

"That is yours for continued study," Glorfindel told him. "Nestadis' weapon should continue to be a force against the evil in the world, and that purpose may come to better fruition in your people's hands."

Legolas' lip quirked in a grateful almost-smile, but his soft expression changed completely at the sight of someone from somewhere behind Glorfindel.

It was Thranduil, who had an unreadable expression in his face. But it was apparent he had witnessed the entire exchange.

**# # #**

Thranduil was not yet forgiven, it seemed. Dinner was still a setting for three attended only by two.

"You seem to have found a good compromise," Glorfindel said along the course of the meal, "letting Legolas work on weapons improvements with the armory. He is active and busy, but not in danger."

"Allowing him things is a slippery slope," Thranduil said. "Soon the inch you give will be a mile, and you only realize it looking back. He is cunning."

"Taking after his father I suppose," Glorfindel said, experimentally. Because there was an unspoken half to that statement – the mother who was so starkly, conspicuously absent that her none-ness was in itself unmissable. Her very gone-ness was a stifling presence.

Thranduil gave him a long stare. It was a warning – _do not go there_. But he gave a plain answer on a deep, defining tragedy, just as Legolas had when he told Glorfindel of the brother he had lost.

"Where else would Legolas get it from," Thranduil said, faux-dismissively, "His mother is long dead and he barely knew her."

**# # #**

The messenger birds were a good diversion for two golden elves who were still prohibited from excessive physical activity.

While their respective soldiers (_mostly_) good-naturedly tried to best (_kill?_) each other in the training fields, Legolas and Glorfindel steered away from the temptation of picking up their own weapons by leaving their men in the supervision of their seconds-in-command. Furthermore, it was a good bonding exercise for the soldiers to be away from their commanders.

"Let them say all sorts or shite about us," Legolas joked.

Glorfindel laughed, and followed the prince to the gamekeeper's grounds a short walk from Thranduil's Halls. They were both in the clothes they were most comfortable in – practical soldierly wares – which inextricably included some weaponry. Their destination was well within the bounds of the protected stronghold, but anytime they were outdoors, part of the culture was to bear arms. Glorfindel had his sword and Legolas, his twin knives.

Garavon, the gamekeeper, met them enthusiastically at the doors of his hut. He was an unmarried, rugged Silvan who could camouflage into the woods with his well-worn clothes and haphazard appearance. He also smelled of animal musk and wood – a real wild creature of his forest. He preferred his Woodland tongue but his staggered Sindarin was functional, and he could converse with Glorfindel energetically. The sum total of topics he could converse about though, was limited to animals. Garavon's soul was warm and kinetic, practically dancing with enthusiasm for his work and his care for animals. Glorfindel had liked him right away.

It was the second time they met, after Glorfindel and Legolas first engaged him about the birds they meant to bring to Imladris on their journey. Today, they were checking on the progress of the project.

Garavon brought them inside and through his hut, to a well-lit, well-ventilated back room where he kept dozens of domesticated pigeons in large, clean cages that were neater than the living quarters they passed to get there.

"I've read on the terrain between Imladris and Eryn Galen," he said. "The distance will be nothing to these birds, wouldn't it?" he cooed into one of the cages indulgently. "Nothing, nothing, nothing at all. But they would have to contend with many predators."

Legolas bit his lip. "How much of a problem will that be?"

Garavon sighed, and he lowered his voice as if to keep the bad news secret from the birds. "You will lose some, certainly. But many others will survive, especially if we are careful about selection." He walked to a different cage. "Take a good look at these warriors."

There were nuances between the birds, Glorfindel noticed. Small differences in colors, patterns, plumage. The ones in here looked less lean than the others they have seen and were... _fluffy_. There had to be a better word.

He glanced at Legolas, who was standing on the other side of the cage, the thoughtful skepticism on his fine-featured face apparent even between the slim bars. His eyes narrowed in thought.

"They seem... unwieldly," Legolas commented.

"The plumage is their greatest weapon," Garavon said gleefully. "This breed has thick, protective ones that detach easily. Imagine you are a bird of prey, you take a good bite out of this little fellow, but all you get is a mouthful of feathers. It is both protective of the flesh beneath and a good distraction - allows for a speedy escape. Some of the smarter ones actually ditch tail feathers deliberately somehow, did you know? Decoy. These are soldiers, my lords. Oh yes they are. Oh yes _you _are, aren't you? Oh yes you are..."

Garavon focused less on the two elves he was with and more on his pets. Glorfindel's amused gaze met Legolas' from across the bars of the cage. The prince's lips were trembling with suppressed laughter, and there were groves on his cheeks and crinkles in the corners of his eyes that lined his face but made him look younger, far more beautiful. It was harder to keep mirth in when it is shared though, and in noticing Legolas too wanted to laugh, Glorfindel choked out a syllable of it, and covered it up with a cough. He salvaged some dignity by clearing his throat.

"And they look like little clouds, don't they?" Garavon enthused. "The predators might even miss them altogether."

"Appearances can indeed be deceiving," Glorfindel said stiffly.

"So these are trained to return home here," Garavon said. "We can bring them to Imladris and I am confident they can be sent reliably with correspondence back to Eryn Galen. As for your other requests..."

He walked to another cage, a smaller one. Glorfindel observed them from one side and Legolas from another. There were only two pigeons here.

"Ah, I was hoping they would fall in love," Garavon sighed in blissful contentment.

They watched, as the birds pecked playfully at each other, and extended their necks against each other, gliding their bodies together.

"These are amongst my finest specimens,: Garavon boasted. "They are courting now – which is perfect, for the mating season is in the spring. If you bring the pair – and a few others I am matchmaking – you will have little ones in Rivendell who can be trained to treat that place as their home. You can really have a pigeon post then, with birds you can send back and forth from here and there."

"We will have to learn how to train them," said Glorfindel.

"Perhaps we bring Garavon with us," said Legolas, "He can teach your people how to look after the birds and nurture their homing instincts."

"Oh but _ernil-nin_," the other protested, "I can hardly be parted from my other work here. And I will be a burdensome traveler, unable to fight."

"It is vital to our Realm that there are birds who know their way home to Rivendell so that we can send messages from here," Legolas said mildly, unused to defiance but patient with the eccentric non-combatant. "In these darkening days, many of these messages will be of the highest importance. They can be messages of information or perhaps even, messages that ask for help. Your contributions to our cause are outsize now, Garavon. There is great need of you."

Garavon looked profoundly unhappy, but he understood the gravity of the situation and the importance accorded to his work. He gulped nervously, but nodded at his prince.

"I will make arrangements with an apprentice here," he said. He hesitated. "Though I am hard-pressed to find volunteers. I am not... quite... the most popular person, nor this the most popular task. I am also rusty with the fighting."

"I will remedy all of that," Legolas assured him. "And I apologize you feel this way about your profession. But all your affairs here will be settled, and rest assured you will be protected on the road."

"_Hannon le_, _ernil-nin_."

"Now tell me more of these birds."

**# # #**

By deliberate design, Legolas invited the gamekeeper to lunch later in the day at the mess hall, on a table shared with Glorfindel. Garavon was uneasy, especially with all the eyes trained in his direction from the company he shared. But Legolas kept the conversation to his expertise, and Garavon found his footing quickly.

Glorfindel marveled at the political young royal anew; Garabon should encounter no problems finding an apprentice now even if Legolas didn't assign anyone, what with the Woodland Prince himself obviously hanging onto his every word.

He liked to think he too contributed somewhat to this outcome; Legolas was explicit in Glorfindel's inclusion into the very public meal, and engaged him actively in the conversation. Glorfindel, amused, happily let himself be used.

**# # #**

On a water break during a joint training session with Eryn Galen soldiers, Glorfindel's senses prickled with the feeling he was being _targeted_.

It was an unusual sensation in an open training field where dozens of ally soldiers were milling about, and he was used to being watched given his history, but something about this gaze and the _fea_ attached to it made him wary.

He pretended cool, calm collectedness. None of the soldiers in his company seemed bothered. Glorfindel stretched his arms and his neck as if just to loosen his muscles, but he let his gaze wander until he found the source of the potent stare.

A young _ellon_ stood at the edges of the training field, and he stared at Glorfindel with a hungry intensity. He had a basket in his hands, heavily laden with all sorts of greenery. He was strapping and tall, with a body that was the dream of any commander looking for a promising soldier – his likely destiny in a very near future. For now, the young elf was apparently in some semblance of farming or domestic service.

Glorfindel quirked an eyebrow at him questioningly, but as he stretched his otherworldly senses out toward the boy, he found a deep grief, like a black hole, but one that was churning and restless, a live thing rather than dead and cold. This was, he guessed, the youngest son of the lost soldier Rochanar. He softened his expression, and jerked his head at the youth to come forward.

The young elf ignored him, and went back to his own tasks.

**# # #**

Dinner that evening was with both Thranduil and Legolas; the latter had apparently ceased punishing his father at last. It had been unfair and petulant to do so at any rate, not that it was any of Glorfindel's business to comment on how father and son related to each other.

"How are soldier Rochanar's family faring?" Glorfindel asked the royals at some point during the meal.

Legolas winced. "The wife is a proper mess. She aches for the company of her remaining family but her sons cannot stand to come home and are begging for the distraction of duty. We can hardly force them to go to their mother, yet at the same time they are far from being in a proper state of mind to be sent out in the lines or the patrols. I admit I am also fearing they may be a uh, a flight risk."

"How so?" Thranduil asked.

"They are convinced their _adar_ is still alive," Legolas said. "They've been very vocal about this, but so far made no requests to mount a rescue or anything like that. Though I fear it is only because they know they would be denied, and that an unsanctioned effort may soon be attempted. I have all the brothers on careful watch. Silon and I have also been in discussions with Lord Brenion on this and have found a solution."

"Assignment to one of the northern outposts?" Thranduil guessed.

"Aye," Legolas confirmed. To Glorfindel he explained, "Our northern borders do not see much enemy incursion, and we have outposts there to keep it that way as well as to protect the mouth if the Forest River, one of our most vital water sources. We will assign Rochanar's soldier-sons a cycle of duties there. There is also a small homestead in the area – where their mother and youngest brother can stay and find domestic usefulness. In the north, the family are far from the temptations of going into Dol Guldur themselves, and they can find preoccupation, purpose and hopefully, peace."

"I came across the youngest one today, I think," said Glorfindel. "He has the built of one who could be a fine fighter some day."

"He is restless to be amongst the ranks of his father and older brothers," Legolas murmured. "Not an uncommon ambition."

Glorfindel realized then, that the brother Legolas had lost must have been older than he. He remembered again, the strangeness of this place – where there seemed to be deliberate effort to erase the pain and consequently, all remembrances of beloved dead.

"When do they leave?" Thranduil asked.

"We gave them a few days to settle affairs here," said Legolas.

"The sooner the better," Thranduil remarked. He reached for his wine. "All their talk and all this hand-holding is detrimental to morale. It's unproductive. It achieves nothing."

**# # #**

"He is not cruel," Legolas said, later that night when he walked Glorfindel to his rooms as had become their custom.

"Hmm?"

"_Adar_," Legolas clarified. "I cannot let you think so. Do not let _him_ make you think so. He just... cannot countenance it well, all this... all this paralyzing loss. Imagine what _he_ had to do when his father died; he did not have time for any of that. And well-buried now, he does not speak of it. I must admit the same goes for myself. It is difficult, when grief is always too near."

"I understand you'd lost your mother and your brother," Glorfindel began. "No no," he said, when Legolas started waving the matter away, "Please. I will ask nothing of you. I just wish to say – that I am sorry for your loss. I am sorry you are alone in all the things you and your people face here. I am sorry for all the things you feel you have to do and be just to survive. I will sometimes disagree and I will never fully understand it, but what I _do _understand now, is that my failure to grasp all of this is but a privilege of fate. I know I am blessed not to understand. I also admire your courage and conviction, and all you and your father have achieved here."

Legolas just shook his head at Glorfindel in weary amusement and chuckled mirthlessly. "What have we achieved..."

"You're alive," Glorfindel said fervently, "and your people are alive. And through you, there is some shield from the evil growing in the south. It will buy us time..."

"Time for what?"

"For things to change," he said, "for hope to rise."

"There you go again," Legolas said quietly, "you and all this hoping."

**# # #**

At breakfast in the mess hall the next morning, Rochanar's youngest son sat at Glorfindel's table so abruptly that the soldiers in the esteemed warlord's company actually adopted defensive stances, their hands shooting for the hilts of their swords.

Glorfindel kept his seat and his cool. As he had the previous day, he felt the younger elf's keen interest in him and he had expected an encounter like this. He raised his hands to calm his men, and was quickly heeded.

Behind Rochanar's youngest son were a few elves whom Glorfindel deduced to be his minders; friends or colleagues who were apparently supposed to keep him in check at this difficult time. They murmured apologies at Glorfindel and made motions for the young elf to rise and leave Glorfindel be.

"Ah but what is a word or two between allies, eh?" Glorfindel said to them easily. He gave the young elves a disarming smile, the one he could often rely upon to get what he wanted. "Please my friends, if we could have some time to talk."

Glorfindel's soldiers warily left their lord to his business, while the agitated young elf's friends did the same. Both parties, however, stayed close by and kept a wary eye on Glorfindel and Rochanar's youngest child, who sneered at his companions.

Glorfindel studied the young _ellon_ for a long, quiet moment. There was a kind of tormented simmering madness in this young one's eyes – a brewing storm. Legolas was wise to have this one away from the stronghold for a while. Glorfindel wondered how the older brothers were faring. Grief was a dangerous thing, and it had many faces.

"I am Glorfindel," said the older elf, opening the talk with something ordinary and mundane.

"I know who you are," the other growled out after a long moment. Too long for normal conversation but he had at least responded, and was maybe finding his way through his clouded mind. Glorfindel had the patience to wait. He was tempted to reach out with his _fea _too, as he had done for Legolas – but then again, that experience had taught him his interference wasn't always going to be welcomed by someone who was hurting.

"You know who I am?" Rochanar's son asked.

"I can guess," Glorfindel said. "Rochanarion." It made the young one wince. "But who are you, beyond being your father's son?"

The other's elf's eyes welled, but he defied them, blinked until the softness borrowed from tears hardened into ice.

"I am nobody."

"That cannot be true," Glorfindel said easily, even if the answer terrified him.

Rochanarion glared at his friends watching the exchange. "They will not leave me alone. They think I and my brothers will do something foolish."

"Will you?" Glorfindel asked.

"What would _you_ do for those you love?" Rochanarion retorted. "But do not answer. I know that too. You stood tall against the impossible. You defied a Balrog and killed it. You died. You lived again. I know what you would do."

"It depends on the situation," Glorfindel said carefully, "and it depends on whether or not what I do impacts others positively. In the instances you cited, the only harm came to myself. I endangered only myself, in exchange for the chance at something grander. My life was a pittance in comparison to the prize at the end. There was no contest."

Rochanarion tilted his head thoughtfully at that, but his eyes veiled and he moved on, asking instead – "What was it like, dying? And what was it like to wait in the Halls of Mandos?"

Glorfindel took a deep, shuddering breath. _It's been a long time_, he told himself, _It's been a long time, and you are no longer burning_.

"I burned," he said quietly. "I smelled my own charred flesh. The pain was excruciating but not for long." It felt like forever but he did not say that. The time was quantitatively quick. "I think – when the burns went so deep the sense of touch was singed away. I fell too, but I did not feel that. I do not know what I died from exactly, the fall or the burning."

"So was death a salvation?"

He knew the answer this young elf wanted to hear. He knew the danger of it too, but he did not want to lie.

"There was no other salvation at the time," Glorfindel admitted.

Rochanarion nodded. "What of the Halls of Mandos?"

Glorfindel did not want to let the other line of thought go just yet, though. "I know what you are trying to glean from me, young one. You want justification to secure the same salvation for your lost father, no matter the cost."

"There is no other salvation at this time."

"It would break him more if you attempted something foolish and harm came to you or to others because of him," Glorfindel said. "Dead or alive he is already lost – he would hurt infinitely more if you or others too should be lost on his behalf."

"What of it, if I indulged in this one selfishness?" Rochanarion said bitterly. "I cannot bear it my lord, the thought of him in the clutches of our enemies. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, I cannot think of anything else."

"Your lady mother needs you," Glorfindel said, "so do your brothers and so do your people. Channel your grief and anger elsewhere. You have the makings of a fine soldier one day."

"None of this would have happened if _ernil-nin_..." he took a deep breath. "He looks well to me, strong even. He should have been there. He could have taken the shot my father's fellows claim they could not. They didn't have the right aim, they said, but I wonder now if they just did not have the courage. If _ernil-nin_ was there..."

"Surely you know he cannot be everywhere," Glorfindel felt duty-bound to say. "The prince may look well to you but I can promise you this – he'd broken his bones, and had all but run out of breath and blood."

"He looks strong," Rochanarion insisted, looking at someone from behind Glorfindel. He knew Legolas had likely entered the room. "He should have been there."

Glorfindel sucked in a breath, and wondered if this was a widely-shared sentiment. Legolas certainly believed it of himself. No wonder he was always venturing out. _No wonder_...

And Glorfindel knew then, that Thranduil was wise to get his son away from here for some time. Rest rally was the most elusive cure here.

**# # #**

Garavon's rock doves were _too_ in love.

This displeased him.

"You're supposed to wait until the spring, you crazy fools," he hissed at them as again, he, Legolas and Glorfindel watched the caged birds.

A week after they had visited, Legolas' mirth about the eccentric gamekeeper and his pets still had not diminished. He slanted laughing eyes up at Glorfindel's amused gaze from across the bars of the cage. It was good to see him healing and happy; his eyes shone and his warmth and enthusiasm were catching.

"They are a, uh, very naughty indeed I suppose," he murmured in agreement, with a valiant attempt at a straight face.

Garavon groaned. "Oh what am I to do with new squabs if you birth them here or on the road? You are not supposed to be fu-"

Glorfindel cleared his throat. "Ah, Master Garavon..."

"-ing until the spring!" Garavon wailed.

"Surely the fate of Imladris and Eryn Galen communications do not rest solely upon these two lovers and their hatchlings, eh?" Legolas said.

"Of course not," Garavon said. "I have others. But they were the best breeding pair. Such intelligence and vigor. Ah but what can you do? Passion makes fools of us all, great and small!"

Glorfindel had to press his lips together. _Firmly_.

"Never mind it," Garavon continued on, cooing at the birds obliviously. "Your _adar_ forgives you and will look after you, oh yes he will. Oh yes, he will. At least these incredible squabs will be born here and belong to our woods, not elsewhere. At detriment to your Imladris of course," he added swiftly, to Glorfindel. "For which I apologize but it cannot be undone. Not to worry though my lord, I have many, _many_ other lovers for you."

Legolas choked out a laugh at the poor phrasing.

"What are our next steps?" Glorfindel asked demurely.

"Well I've acquired a good number of trainees for apprentices, did you know?" he replied cheerfully. "I've picked two, and I mean to show them how I train the homing birds so that they can do that for the squabs born here while I am away with you."

"How does that go?" Legolas asked curiously.

"I establish their home here with food so that they can connect returning with reward," Garavon said.

"Incentivizing," Legolas summarized.

"And conditioning," added Glorfindel.

"Exactly!" said Garavon, excited at finding like minds. "And then I take them out to ever widening distances. We go farther and farther and farther each time, so that eventually, irrespective of the distance, they know where their real home is."

"Do you train them with message handling already?" asked Legolas.

"Ah yes," said Garavon. "They should get used to the weight and the hindrance to movement after all."

"What are you thinking?" Glorfindel asked.

"Our communications between outposts and the stronghold is still though messengers or fire arrows or smoke," said Legolas. "Imagine if all outposts were outfitted with these birds."

"I won't have enough for every outpost yet my lord," said Garavon. "But if I had the proper resources..."

Legolas laughed. "I will battle for your resources at court, Garavon. But I think it would benefit my lobby if I can see how it works, and what it will take for us to accomplish this network."

"Why don't you join us in the training, _ernil-nin_?" Garavon suggested eager at the idea of Legolas' company, the legitimacy it lent to his work, and eventually, funding. "We go northwards, farther and farther we will go for the birds to learn how to navigate distances and come back home. But only until the safe bounds."

Legolas' eyes lit. He'd been cooped up in the stronghold too long, Glorfindel surmised, and was hungry for the wider outdoors. It was also an assignment safe enough that he would likely be allowed by Thranduil and Maenor.

"I will make arrangements," he all but beamed. "Would the Lord Glorfindel like to join us? I know you are still held back from hard training, and it may benefit you to see how the birds work for when they are also eventually maintained in Rivendell."

Glorfindel was hungry to go out too. "Thank you, my lord, I would be very grateful to join. I wish to see more your land as well. This is an ideal opportunity."

TO BE CONTINUED...


	11. The Light of Your Life

**_Thanks to all who are still with me on this. Please share your thoughts and help the writer along - c&c's are always welcome ;) Best wishes and cooperative RL schedules to all this busy holiday season!_**

# # #  
**11: The Light of Your Life**

_Eryn Galen, T.A. 2851_  
# # #

Legolas and Glorfindel's seconds-in-command were far less pleased by their planned excursion beyond the confines of Thranduil's Halls.  
Legolas' Silon and Glorfindel's Istor joined in the dissenters – Thranduil and Maenor chief among them - to the plan, but there seemed no reasonable grounds to prevent the two golden elves from leaving. They were traveling to a relatively safe outpost over secured territory, on a mundane assignment, with light physical activity commensurate to the needs of their recovering bodies.

There was simply no logical reason to keep them confined within the Elvenking's halls. The healer Maenor's wry, self-aware objection of "But if you are out there, _ernil_, I cannot cure you of your own foolishness" was hardly a sound argument.

Still, Thranduil assigned Silon to the outfit and Istor took it upon himself to accompany his lord Glorfindel. Furthermore, Thranduil allowed them to go if the sturdy Renior came along as muscle, and a proficient healer joined in case anyone took hurt.

Demure Rossenith's was therefore included, but her presence encouraged more volunteers both from Imladris and Eryn Lasgalen. Legolas watched in mounting horror and princely temper as the party became larger and larger. In the end, the peace was kept when Thranduil ordered it would be Captain Tauriel to come along.

The besotted Istor was ecstatic at this development. Legolas, on the other hand... his eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the most recent addition to the growing circus, after Thranduil revealed it during dinner.

"You look perturbed," Thranduil said to his son. "I thought you liked working with Tauriel."

"She is a good friend and a gifted soldier," Legolas conceded. "Her company is always valuable to me. But you packaging us off like this for so meager an undertaking, as if I needed a minder, a nursemaid, a donkey-"

"It is emasculating?" Glorfindel summarized for him, wryly.

Legolas glared at him. "That is the least of my concerns."

Glorfindel tilted his head at the younger elf thoughtfully, undaunted. _Is it?_ he wondered. He first thought the prince was embarrassed that the lady of his romantic interest was going to be his minder, and Glorfindel had to admit, it wasn't the best look for wooing. But Legolas seemed to have meant something else entirely.

Thranduil stared at his son too, with brows subtly raised but gaze cutting. "Why would Captain Tauriel care about your-"

"I did not say that," Legolas said wearily, pressing at the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

Glorfindel decided to make up for his faux pas of bringing up what he felt was Legolas' seemingly romantic interest in Tauriel by joking, "So who's the donkey?"

"I meant," Legolas insisted on seriousness, "the resources deployed are disproportionate to the objectives. Silon? Renior? Tauriel? They are amongst our best! Are their skills not better served elsewhere?"

"The situation spurred by our visitors," Thranduil lingered on the s's in an avoidable editorial hiss thrown Glorfindel's way, "Has stabilized. The lines are again what they were. Furthermore, these particular soldiers of ours have by incident been in and out of the south too long and are scheduled for some reprieve. An easy journey north in service to their prince is both restful and dutiful, is it not?"

"It is still too much," growled Legolas. "We are training pigeons for the love of the gods, ada. Our biggest problem so far is that the damned birds have been fu-"

Glorfindel cleared his throat.

"-ing their brains out before they should in the spring!" Legolas finished exasperatedly.

"My decision stands," Thranduil said imperviously. "And you can choose to accept it, or stay here if you will. I know what I prefer. I will not change my mind."

Legolas pursed his lips together and his nose flared in his displeasure, but he huffed out a breath. When he released it, he also released his anger. His face softened.

"I know you are afraid for me, _aran-nin_," he said quietly, eyes beseeching. _And good gods_, thought Glorfindel, _Thranduil is in for it now_. Even the Elvenking knew it – he stiffened, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, and his jaws set.

"But I am already prevented from helping at the lines, adar," Legolas implored him, "Must I deprive our people of our best soldiers too? It is unjust to all of us."

_Inches and miles_, Glorfindel remembered Thranduil saying, of how cunningly Legolas could creep work and danger back into his life the moment one gave in even by a little bit. _Inches and miles..._

Thranduil's eyes met Glorfindel's, and he did not know what kind of intervention the Elvenking needed from him.

"What worries you about your secure north?" Glorfindel asked.

"'Safe' here is where one does not necessarily die," Thranduil said drily as he reached for his wine glass, "but sometimes one gets cut up a little bit. Especially when that someone is reckless." He lingered at the s's again, this time hissing pointedly at his son.

"There will still be spiders," Legolas explained, "and hungry, hostile animals driven beyond their usual habitats with the degradation of the south. Scattered groups of orcs and goblins also make homes of the mountains, though attempts at infiltration of our north are few, far between, and so far easily repelled."

"We are traveling with four non-combatants," Glorfindel murmured thoughtfully. "Garavon and two apprentices, and Rossenith besides. We will be clumsy and noisy traveling with birds – easy prey for wild things. And you and I are not at our best..."

He did not come to a conclusion, only lit the way to it for Legolas to follow. The prince did not disappoint, and he sighed in resignation.

"It is not a meager undertaking besides," added Thranduil. "As you said yourself – if we can utilize these birds in the creation of a viable communication network, the benefits will he outsize."

"So you are sending Renior, Silon and Tauriel to protect the birds, not me?" Legolas asked, the joke soft and tentative on his face.

His father snorted at him derisively, but Glorfindel thought Thranduil's eyes laughed. Legolas smiled – languid, wide, unrestrained (_contagious, irresistible_) - he saw it too.

"You should have said that first," Legolas said jauntily. "And I would not have complained at all."

**# # #**

The days that followed were of preparation for the upcoming trip.

There were birds slated for training, and birds that were already experts at homing and would be left at one of the outposts as a pilot program for the communications network. Captain Tauriel took Rossenith and Garavon and his two apprentices through a rigorous review of survival and fighting beyond the stronghold. In his free time away from Tauriel's exhaustive tutelage, Garavon trained three young soldiers (borrowed from Legolas' command on rotation) how to look after the animals and plants he was to leave behind, and how to record data on the birds he was sending home.

Legolas, eager for his upcoming outside assignment, was an energetic and efficient councilman for his father during the day, and a cooperative convalescent, to boot. Furthermore, (to ensure he stayed on Thranduil's good graces, Glorfindel noted wryly), Legolas was even on time for their nightly dinners. They ended sober at sensible hours.

Glorfindel knew Legolas' studiously good behavior extended beyond Thranduil's watchful gaze too, for they were often together; watching the progress of their people and preparations, sharing meals at the common hall, and walking back to their quarters after dinner at night. Their impending excursion put the two warriors in happy moods, a marked contrast from that of the Elvenking. While Legolas' disposition lightened, Thranduil's soured as the day of his son's departure drew closer and closer.

A scheduled feast for the Midwinter was hopefully to be a salve on the Elvenking's low spirits. Glorfindel had come to learn during his time here that the people of Eryn Galen not only liked good wine and good food, they also appreciated a spot of defiance – and feasting on the longest night of the year seemed apt for folks who were prone to dark jokes and laughing in the face of danger. It was subversive and irreverent.

It was Galion who had informed him of the feast and that his and his men's presence was expected, but it was Legolas with whom Glorfindel inquired about protocols. He'd been to many feasts on many courts, and wanted to ensure he and his soldiers would be good representatives of Imladris in this affair.

"All you have to do my lord," said the Woodland Prince, "Is to be there."

"Just be there?" he repeated, skeptically.

"That is the point of the Midwinter Feast _hir-nin_," said Legolas, "In the darkest of days, somehow - we are still here."

**# # #**

As a feast, it was unlike any Glorfindel had ever been in, in all his life. Outdoors in the winter night, there was very minimal light; only those borrowed from the distant stars. They twinkled in the spaces between wind-stirred leaves and branches. The effect was that the feast was alternately almost pitch black, but when the leaves shifted and one saw the stars, they were startlingly bright, sticking out like pinpricks of light in the inky night.

But while the lighting was subdued, the atmosphere was anything but. Everyone moved around like shadows, the mask of the darkness lending them not only stealth but also – anonymity and release.

As Glorfindel walked about the feast, he caught fleeting glances of wood-elves running in bare feet, of young lovers stealing moments and touches in the dark. Someone had even come close enough to him to blow against his ear before vanishing away with a breathy laugh.

_In the darkest of days_, Legolas had said, _we are still here_...

But there was a dark half to that sentiment, Glorfindel realized. _Tomorrow, we might not be_.

Someone had put a drink in his hands, and though it tasted primarily like fine, rare Dor-winion, he detected the mild lacing of something else. His heart sped up, and the wood-elves around him flitted around in the dark more and more like visions and ghosts. He was reminded this was a rich forest of substantial resources, with imaginative herbalists.

He let his soldiers come and go as they pleased in this exotic affair, while he himself stayed back and simply watched events unfold before him for a long while. The minutes went by uncountable, until he realized his thundering heartbeat had been matched by music and the music, which was in turn, matched by heady dancing. The sight of the Woodland dancers came and went from his sight with the stirring of the winds and the leaves, letting in and covering up the stars, alternating black night with celestial light.

Suddenly he was not alone – whisper soft but as telling as a sigh, beside him appeared a familiar and welcome presence. The backs of their hands touched.

He turned his head to look at Legolas, then.

Glorfindel had descended from princes and walked with kings. He'd seen nobility in its myriad forms, but never in such an incarnation – bare footed in a thin, loose shirt and forest brown breeches, alabaster skin smudged at the cheek, hair not only unbraided but looking very much as if he had been rolling in the hay with someone somewhere, naturalistic in all forms except he was armed with his white knives sheathed at his back. He looked... he looked both so distinctly of the earth but beyond it. Like a wood-tied ghost or fairy, or perhaps, how Yavanna's avenger might look if she ever desired to have one. Glorfindel could almost see roots sprout from his feet and wound to the ground enveloping wide swathes of the earth, or his hair grow flowers and fruits, or his eyes shine by the light of the Trees. He was magnificent.

"How are we enjoying the festivities this Midwinter's night, _hir-nin_?" Legolas asked Glorfindel. He sounded slightly breathless in Glorfindel's muffled hearing, _and what in all of Arda could these crazy wood-elves have put in that drink?_

Glorfindel had to search for the right words. The drink was a hindrance, but more so was the other elf's knuckles, still brushing his. Surely the other elf was also aware of their proximity, invasive and incendiary.

"It is... unlike any feast I have ever been in."

Legolas smiled at that – slowly and indulgently, as was his tendency when one courted the precious rarity of it. "Well. I hoped we wouldn't be like anyone else."

"The whole evening unfolds thus?" Glorfindel asked. "Making merry in the dark?"

Legolas huffed out a laugh. "Of course not, my lord. When the food comes, we must have our light."

"Priorities," Glorfindel said wryly.

Legolas took Glorfindel's hand - so conveniently close to his own - and lifted it between them. Glorfindel let himself be manhandled, but stared at the other elf curiously. Legolas opened the older elf's palm, and placed upon it a small, round, stout candle with a long wick. Legolas' warm touch left his but moments later, to hold a candle of his own in the same reverent, almost offertory way. For a long moment, the drums silenced, the dances ceased, all forms of youthful shenanigans in the dark were subdued, and it was as if the forest itself held its breath.

Then – a light in the dark. Beyond borrowed starlight, a single flame from a small candle.

It was borne by Thranduil, still in his robes unlike his wild forest child. He looked ethereal, god-like amongst his people. There was no doubting who was this land's king. But he was barefoot too, close to the earth, and on his head easily rested a crown of twisted, leaf-less, bone-dry and winter-bleached branches.

He found his son easily amongst the throng of shadowed wood-elves in the dark. He approached Legolas almost floating, and shared his flame with his son's unlit candle. It caught, and they murmured felicitations to each other in their Woodland tongue.

Legolas stood at attention and waited for his father-the-king to turn his back, before he turned away toward Glorfindel beside him. He offered the flame of his candle to the ancient warlord, who lowered his palms to accept.

Legolas murmured to Glorfindel in his Silvan tongue with eyes lowered in concentration at the candles, and the other elf watched his full lips dance over the rhythmic, ritual words.

The wicks touched, the dead one ignited. For a moment, the twin flares burned larger together than they could ever have alone.

Legolas lifted his long blue eyes to Glorfindel's as he repeated the _greeting? incantation? prayer? wishful thinking?_ to Glorfindel in quiet Sindarin:

"The stars shine brightest in the dark. May the light of your life be a torch on the path of the lost and the weary."

Inexplicably, Glorfindel's heart-or-stomach-or-whatever-it-may-be caught in his throat forming a lump, and he could not speak around it, barely even breathe.

He ached, deeply.

His soul was burdened by a sense of longing and loss he did not understand. It was a word caught on the tip of his tongue, an itch he could not scratch, a thought that had flitted away, a beautiful memory he could remember but never touch again, never relive. The burden of his years struck him heavily then, seldom though it did. He was used to carrying it more lightly, with a long view, with the love of the gods in mind – his only available comfort, really.

_We were created in love. We are watched. We are cared for. When we hurt, our makers weep. There will be hardship and pain, but that is existence – as fire forges swords and diamonds emerge from the most crushing forces of the earth... there will be formation, and in the end - salvation_.

_There is a plan. A vision for every leaf and blade of grass, every speck of dust and strand of hair, every infinite and infinitesimal thing in the known and unknown worlds... a place in the Song. It is indescribable, that love and attention. It is unfathomable_.

_But goods gods_, he thought mortally, ephemerally, helplessly, _good gods it sure hurts a heck of a lot until then_.

Glorfindel thought of all of Arda's extinguished lights.

These fantastic flames snuffed out by the dark, and sometimes by their own blinding flares burnt to the quick from both ends. He thought of old friends and allies, of countless bodies of their kin scattered in distant battlefields. Of prisoners tortured and maimed and then beheaded. Of corpses burnt, irrecoverable. Of heroes beaten to a pulp, faces unrecognizable. As if brutal death was not nearly savage enough.

Balrog-burnt, orc-beaten, gods-cursed... for some reason he saw them all, all of them every single one, in painfully beautiful young Legolas' liquid gaze in the candlelight.

There is a saying, of seeing one's life flash before one's eyes? But Glorfindel did not see his own life, here. He saw the life of Legolas as if it had already been lived: just another beautiful, brilliant, burnt-out fool. He saw them all in Legolas and he heard them all, all of them every single one, in the simple Midwinter wish:

_May the light of your life be a torch on the path of the lost and the weary_.

"But what does it mean and what does it matter," Glorfindel murmured, just between the two of them, maybe even just to himself, with Legolas only by incident hearing. "It already sounds as if we've died."

_The light of your life, the light of your life..._

_... on the path of the lost..._

The life lauded sounded like a memory.

_I would rather hold your hand_, he thought,_ and forge forward together instead_.

Legolas gave him a slight bow, and turned away to share his light with others. Glorfindel watched him go, the barefooted prince with the leaves and twigs and seeds and flowers caught in his thick, loose hair, moving from elf to elf with his quiet (_hopefully-not-fruitless_) wishes.

_Good gods_, Glorfindel thought after him, and he imagined the prayer like a thin strand that tied the departing prince to his heart and his good will, _Please. Please keep this servant's light burning against the smothering dark_.

**# # #**

Despite Thranduil's increasingly foul mood and best efforts, time crawled toward that day unstoppable, when his son was slated to leave on his northern excursion.

If the Elvenking is this mercurial with Legolas leaving on a short trip to secured lands, Glorfindel contemplated, how insufferable would he be when his son sets out for distant Imladris for an absence of months?

Suddenly, leaving the stronghold for the short trip north was only one night's sleep away.

On the evening before their departure, Glorfindel begged off of the formal dinner and told his hosts he wanted to discuss a few more things with his men staying behind. The truth was though, he wanted the royals to have the time alone together.

Glorfindel concluded his affairs early – the trip was to start before daybreak after all – and retired to his rooms for preparation and rest. He was a soldier and knew not to pack much, and he finished with the task quickly. It left much time for meditation.

He wondered how dinner was unfolding for Thranduil and Legolas. He imagined Thranduil having more wine and less patience than usual. He imagined fiery Legolas biting his tongue at the temper his father is trying to court so that he could be punished and made to stay back. He imagined them testing each other, these little pulls and pushes hovering over and underlining their unmistakable loving. It was a complicated dance, that which matched the music of this father and son. Inextricably Glorfindel imagined also, the pride and amusement Thranduil's otherwise glacial eyes could not hide, courted by Legolas' gentle jibes and tentative teasing.

He could hardly blame Thranduil, though – when Legolas was in that mode he was irresistible. Again Glorfindel was reminded of the dawn, how it creeps upward and outward, a tender light sweetly engulfing the world.

Glorfindel was settling in for bed when he heard a knock on his door. His senses extended outward. He felt Legolas' fea and its soft but inextinguishable light. He let his own soul be felt, an acknowledgement of the other's presence, a small 'hello.' He walked to the door and opened it for the unexpected but - he realized with a strange surprise for his heart sped and swelled – very welcome visitor.

"I am sorry to disturb you my lord," Legolas said quietly. "May I come in?"

"Of course!" Glorfindel stood aside and opened the door wider.

Legolas shouldered through; his arms were loaded with a carefully folded garment that smelled woodsy with a hint of sweet and zesty citrus. They settled in the sitting room across from each other, and Legolas lowered the load beside his hip.

"I would like to discuss a few final things about our excursion."

"Please," Glorfindel said, opening his hands out to the prince earnestly.

"You and I would be the most senior ranked members of the traveling party," Legolas said, "but neither of us are in command of it. As far as Lord Maenor and aran-nin are concerned, we are not cleared for duty and are there on a non-combatant capacity. The ranking officer will be Captain Tauriel. She will have the final word on military matters."

"I understand."

Legolas nodded and pursed his lips, cautiously making his approach toward his next subject.

"The areas we intend to travel are considered secure," Legolas said. "But there are no such guarantees in this day and age, would you agree?"

Glorfindel looked at him thoughtfully, and stretched his soul out to the other's fea. It was unreadable at that moment, like a cloudy noon day that was as likely to be sunny as it was to be a torrent of rain. He could pry, but he was not going to. It seemed more invasive now that they knew and respected each other better.

"If our party should be attacked," Legolas said, "We may be convalescents, but our field commanding officer may still utilize us in defense, just as they may utilize any non-combatants who have rudimentary combat skills. It will be entirely up to Tauriel's estimation of the situation and her view on our personal well-being whether or not to involve us in the fighting. We are uh... expected to cooperate."  
Glorfindel could not help from smirking. "A reminder likely better designed for you than for me."

"Oh, please," the other elf said, with eyes rolled heavenward.

"I will keep to the chain of command," Glorfindel said, putting a hand over his heart sincerely. "I will stand down and back off if instructed - as long as you do."

Legolas smiled slowly, and it looked to Glorfindel like a dawning, like a blooming flower. It opened up his face, exposed his wry humor at the promise and its condition.

"We can hold each other back then," Legolas said. He paused. The teasing had shifted his soul toward sunny, but Glorfindel now sensed churning gray clouds. "There is something else I need you to steer clear of."

Glorfindel couldn't help it – he felt his arms crossing defensively over his chest, because a part of him already knew where this conversation was headed.

"If I or any of my men should be taken alive," said Legolas, "and recovery is unlikely... you know how I stand on things. For me and my soldiers, it is death before capture. You do not understand or accept our ways and I will not burden you or your soldiers with the deed, but if I or any of my men do it for our people, do not interfere. Promise you will not interfere."

Glorfindel stared at the young elf before him and imagined it, for this beautiful, bright being to fall on the crosshairs of his own people. For him to be killed rather than captured.

Glorfindel's stomach dropped at the thought of an arrow through Legolas' expressive eagle eye, or a knife tossed through to the light padding over his generous heart. He imagined fletching resting on the other's forehead, marking where a shaft had pierced his brilliant mind, or the hilt of a dagger the only part visible of a blade that cut through his throat, silencing his barbed jokes, his eloquence, the voice to his thoughts and ideas.

It sickened Glorfindel, and he suddenly could not breathe for it.

"That is your business," he managed to rasp out, but he found he could not promise non-interference. If Legolas noticed it, he did not insist. There was perhaps another thing weighing on his mind, for he took a deep breath and started fiddling with the fabric of his trousers at the legs, now also shaking with unspent energy.

"I also need to tell you," Legolas said, "if you or any of your men are taken, there will be no rescue. If you are caught alive, we will not risk our people for your recovery."

"I understand that-"

"Then I would beg you to reconsider your desire to be taken alive as prisoners," Legolas said quickly. "I would urge you to rethink it."

"I cannot choose such a death over life and possibility," Glorfindel said, "I cannot. You already know this. You are free to make your own choices, but this is mine, and mine for my soldiers."

Legolas scooted forward and to Glorfindel's surprise, placed his hands over Glorfindel's crossed arms earnestly, insistently. The posture required him to be on his knees before the seated warlord, and he looked up at Glorfindel with those impossible, imploring eyes.

"My lord please," Legolas said, "_Please_."

Glorfindel's brows furrowed and he un-crossed his arms, freeing himself from the younger elf's grip. But he pressed forward himself, as if he could not get any closer trying to read the other's insistent gaze. He held Legolas steady by the shoulders and looked down upon the fine face – it was a truly exceptional one, but it was the stubborn flickering light deep inside him that shone the brightest. His gaze shown with something else too, something Glorfindel couldn't understand.

Glorfindel's _fea_ brushed the edges of Legolas', tentatively, unsure of his welcome. He was not shunned and furthermore, Legolas gave open words to his feelings.

"I've come to care for you – greatly - in the time you've been here," the prince said plainly. "I cannot suffer such a fate for anyone whom I lo - value."

Glorfindel felt his heart lurch in his chest, and at some part of the back of his mind, joy sparked small and incomprehensible and possibly forbidden.

But the spark did not catch.

Instead Glorfindel was angered – _greatly_ \- that there should be some corner of this benighted world that would equate caring to killing. For was this not what Legolas was asking – _I care for you, will you please let me kill you_?

"There are a lot of things I do not understand about your people and all that you suffer," Glorfindel told him, voice low and shaky and a breath and heartbeat away from truly raging. Even he was surprised by his own anger, but he set that aside for now, and he let himself...he let himself burn with it. He could feel it in his eyes, all his uncountable years and mortal frustrations and gods-given power conjured in a potent potion. Glorfindel could be terrifying, and he let himself be so. He could even see it in the breath that caught in Legolas' chest. But the younger elf did not flinch.

"And I know, I know, it is hard to find hope and trust in the gods or anything else for that matter, when you have to scramble around in the dark. But I have played humble student to your people for long enough. You think I know nothing of suffering? You think I've not seen or lived among the Balrog-burnt, orc-beaten and gods-cursed? I will always choose life and possibility, especially if I will not present a danger to others. If I have to suffer for it, I will suffer for it."

"You would condemn those you leave behind and those who love you to that same suffering?" Legolas countered. "For them to torture themselves with the thought of as you say 'possibilities?' For when you think of possibilities you think of endurance and hope for rescue, do you not? But what about rape? Defilement? To be turned into an enemy and be a weapon against your own kind? Are these not possibilities too? As long as you are in captivity, you are a danger to others. Especially the likes of you, my lord, with all of your power."

"Then I will have to trust in that same power to endure," Glorfindel said. "And I will trust in those whom I love to do the right thing to and for me if I should be turned. And I will trust in the plans of our gods that things will be better."

"Trust," Legolas scoffed derisively, disgustedly, faithlessly. He looked away. "Trust..."

"I trust myself," Glorfindel said fervently, "I trust my people. I trust our gods. And I have hope for our future. You are readily willing to die for your cause and your people, ernil. and I admire that. But it takes courage too doesn't it, to live for them?"

Legolas took a deep breath and released it in a long sigh. "Very well. Then we will let things stand thus. I will not ask you to change your mind. It is as set as my own in opposing conviction." He patted at the fabric he had brought with him and laid to the side. "This is for you. A cloak more weather-worn, more forest-scented. Apparently, I cannot dim the brightness of your soul and all these gods-be-damned hoping and trusting, but I can conceal it a bit. Otherwise you will be as hard to travel with as the blasted birds."

Glorfindel let his blood cool, but he couldn't say anything calmly yet, much less return to joking and levity.

"I will leave you to your rest," Legolas said as he rose to his feet. "We start early tomorrow."

Glorfindel watched him go.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	12. An Old Chestnut

_**hello friends and happy new year to all!**_

_RL swept me off my feet over the holiday season and my timeliness has been meh, but please know I am trying my best to put up reasonably spaced updates on this fic and that I mean very much for it to be concluded - I haven't left a fic unfinished over more than a decade of posting, and I don't mean to start now :) please keep the reviews coming if you can. comments and constructive criticism are akways welcome to me.. I haven't been able to respond lately but I read and value each and every one. they help writers improve in grammar, style and perspective, on top of being a real "income" here: community and connection with other fans :) I appreciate your time reading my work whether or not you can post a review though - god knows it's been hard for me to find much these days hahaha. At any rate... without further ado, here's the next chapter. I hope you enjoy the reading as much as I enjoy the writing!_

**# # #**

**12: An Old Chestnut**

_Eryn Galen, T.A. 2851_

**# # #**

Armed, well-supplied and ready, the traveling party stood eagerly at the exit of Thranduil's halls, awaiting send-off from the Elvenking.

Glorfindel was wearing the cloak Legolas had given, but as the elven prince surveyed his traveling companions, he found some cause to stand before Glorfindel and fiddle with it. His long, white, adroit archer's fingers fussed at the hood with singular focus. His generous lips were pursed in concentration at his task. He pulled at the top to cover more of the ancient warlord's forehead. He tucked in stray strands of the older elf's golden tresses, pushing them behind his neck and shoulder. The tips of his fingers ghosted over Glorfindel's skin, at the hollow of his collarbone. His skin felt suddenly paper-thin, as if the Woodland Prince's fingers could touch the insides of him.

Glorfindel, amused, stood still and let Legolas do whatever he wanted. His blood had cooled since the debate of the previous night, and he had even managed to get some sleep before the early excursion.

_Some_, he thought dryly._ Not much_.

His heated exchange with Legolas had roiled him, as few things managed to lately. When he calmed, he was bothered with an altogether different thought from the same conversation.

_"I've come to care for you – greatly - in the time you've been here,"_ the prince had said._ "I cannot suffer such a fate for anyone whom I lo - value."_

_Lo-value?_

Glorfindel had been too angry to contemplate it at the time it was said, but later he could not help but wonder - _What in all of Arda was that?_

Glorfindel played around with the slip in his head, and then sleeplessly pondered what it meant not just to Legolas but also himself. His heart lurched and he wondered now, with the cloak-fussing and the fleeting touches, if the princeling was toying with him a bit. He also wondered if he enjoyed it.

_How much you enjoy it that is_, he corrected himself, for he already knew that he did.

Then again, back in the healing halls when he was in the throes of pain and fever, this same prince had fussed with his blankets to keep him warm and comfortable too. Maybe it meant nothing. Who the heck knew what was going on in that lovely, beleaguered, princely head.

"Not up to muster, am I?" Glorfindel murmured at him.

That blink-and-you'll-miss-it smile. It was almost imaginary, almost a wishful thought you were supposed to doubt had ever been real.

"I will have to report you to the commanding officer," Legolas murmured back, and they both glanced at Tauriel, who looked singularly formidable and very much in charge in her warrior's best. She gave the pair a brief, suspicious look before turning to her own inspections. She was focused on her task and ready to go.

"I think she believes we are troublemakers," Legolas said.

"She might be right," Glorfindel said.

Thranduil arrived and saw them off with some ceremony. It was a formal affair with father and son bowing at each other, just as the rest of the party bowed before the Elvenking. If Thranduil and Legolas had any more private goodbye's prior to that, Glorfindel did not know.

They set off out of the bounds of the stronghold on foot – Legolas and his second Silon, Glorfindel and his second Istor, Tauriel to command them, Renior as additional muscle, Rossenith as healer. and Garavon with his apprentices and his chattering birds. The group exited the massive double doors of the cavernous fortification, and crossed a bridge that took them to the edge of the thick woods.

Tauriel had the lead and Renior the rear. They walked quietly and leisurely in the dewy early morning.

"Glorfindel," Tauriel called out to the ancient warlord, who was behind her. She had shifted at once to his name rather than honorary title, he noted. She waited for him to match her steps and they paced each other. "I have for you, what we call around here, an 'old chestnut.'"

Glorfindel frowned. "Do you mean to eat?"

Silon, somewhere behind them, laughed.

Glorfindel turned to face him. Legolas' second-in-command was farther down the line near the rear, and from Glorfindel's view he could see everyone... except for Legolas. The prince was inexplicably, suddenly nowhere in sight.

"It means a common joke," Silon explained. "Forgive the country parlance, _hir-nin_."

"A common joke," Tauriel affirmed, beaming. Her fiery eyes danced.

Glorfindel smiled at her indulgently. "I would like that very much."

"Have you ever seen a wood-elf prince climb a tree?" she asked, faux demurely.

"No..." Glorfindel replied.

Tauriel grinned. "Well neither have we!"

Glorfindel chuckled, understanding it meant Legolas was particularly stealthy at it.

"There is a second part to the joke," Renior called out from the rear. "My lord – have you ever seen a wood-elf prince climb down from a tree?"

"I suppose not, if he is just as sneaky about it," Glorfindel guessed.

Renior guffawed. "A good guess_ hir-nin_, but no. The real answer is: of course not! Because once they are up there, they never leave – ow!"

A literal old chestnut went sailing its way to the top of his head from the trees above.

"Legolas for the love of the gods!" Renior exclaimed.

Another chestnut from above went sailing in Tauriel's direction, but she shifted aside, dodging it nonchalantly. Glorfindel was impressed; she must have eyes in the back of her head!

He grinned and looked up at the canopy of trees, not knowing where Legolas was because the branches and the leaves – less dense though they were in the winter – bunched thickly and weren't even stirring. They seemed to stare studiously blankly back at him; they weren't going to give away their prince.

Another old chestnut this time went sailing straight towards Glorfindel's forehead. He caught the nut, grinned, and pocketed it.

**# # #**

In the company of wood-elves, in a place still within their undisputed stewardship in the northern parts of the forest, Glorfindel saw just how enchanting Eryn Galen could be.

The morning sun danced between the multi-hued leaves somehow still clinging on in the winter, even as their compatriots had already created beds of flora on the ground. They looked like mirror images in a way, tree canopies soaring skyward above and scattered on the ground below, connected by thick, mighty trunks.

Where the more contested territories of the Woodland had jutting roots, impossibly twisted branches and malevolent fog, here the arms of the trees wound around each other where they touched, as if they were just holding hands. The ways were winding rather than labyrinthine, and everything was imbued with gentle light.

The smell was different too – earthy, inevitable mulch, but also fragrant leaves and woods. Sound and movement were different as well – where in the south there was a kind of still, forbidding hollow, here there was a bustle of life. If Glorfindel's eyes did not deceive him, the branches were moving beyond the caprices of a gentle wind.

There was sound in most of the forest, he corrected himself. The Woodland Prince who finally abandoned the treetops for Glorfindel's company had landed beside him only with the barest whisper.

"The forest is fascinated by you," he told the ancient warlord with a small, thoughtful frown. It looked like mild, childlike jealousy to Glorfindel. He suppressed a smile.

"Am I so exotic?"

Legolas lip quirked. "That is one word for it, I suppose."

"What word would you or your trees use?" Glorfindel asked.

"We speak beyond words," Legolas said, abstractly. "It is not a conversation. It is just, connection."

Legolas, Glorfindel found, was different out in these wilds. Garbed in the humble archer's camouflaged uniform of his truest skin, he looked surer of himself, more powerful, more at home, more fey.

It is with this casual power and conviction that he took Glorfindel's arm and ushered him toward the nearest mighty trunk, and his archer's strong fingers wound about the older elf's wrist and lifted it, to press against the body of the tree. He put his palm over Glorfindel's hand.

Glorfindel _felt / heard / saw/ smelled / tasted_ the song of the earth, pulsing and ascendant. A rousing chorus of energy, mounting heavenward and overflowing. For a long moment Glorfindel felt blinded and deafened, and he could not tell up from down. The old tree had a lot of stories to tell the re-embodied godly emissary, and the trees with whom its branches and roots were entwined wanted their voices heard too. Stories and voices, but no words. Excited chatter that felt like prayers, praises and pleas but again – no words he could decipher. Glorfindel swayed until Legolas pulled their hands away.

The Woodland Prince held him steady by the arm, until he settled. When he returned to himself, he found Legolas muttering at the branch in native Silvan. It sounded like a mild rebuke, softened by the prince's hand stroking the trunk.

Feeling Glorfindel's gaze, Legolas turned to him and explained, "I do not think they've ever met anyone like you, in all the timeless ageless life of this earth. They are too excited."

Istor appeared beside them. "Are you all right, my lord?!"

Glorfindel patted the shoulder of his second-in-command reassuringly. He recovered quickly and he felt more alive than ever, but he still did not quite have words for his experience. He looked around him at the glorious bounty of this forest and marveled anew.

He shook his head in stunned amazement, and when his gaze met Legolas', he had a sudden understanding of him. He had a glimpse of why the Woodland Prince was so willing to die for it all, all the light and life of his home.

**# # #**

They moved at a leisurely pace; with noncombatants and the homing birds, it was not a lean outfit. But Glorfindel was grateful for it allowed him to appreciate their surroundings. They came upon a stray spider or two, but these threats were met and eliminated with calm efficiency. No one aside from Tauriel and Silon had even needed to go to arms.

For most of the walk, Glorfindel reveled in the life of the forest. He touched branches and trunks and stretched his fea out, connecting happily with this strange and vibrant world.

He caught Legolas watching him a few times, with glacial gaze turned sea blue in warmth, and his fine features lined in amusement. The corners of his eyes crinkled.

They halted for a meal and a few hours' rest at a place beside a stream that was a well-known pitstop to the soldiers. A canopy of autumn-warmed leaves of yellow, gold, amber and roan sheltered them, and Glorfindel could swear it almost curved over their heads accommodatingly.

As their traveling party settled about camp, Legolas touched the thick trunk of an obliging tree and tilted his head at Glorfindel.

"Would you come up with me?" he asked quietly, with a shyness that did not match the defiance in his eyes, as if he was daring rejection but also fearing it.  
Glorfindel pondered the invitation. From the corner of his eye, he could sense the other elves half-listening to them, even as they went about their tasks. Tauriel watched them from the corner of her eye. Silon, however, stared openly and warily.

"You can climb, can't you?" Legolas asked, his impatience for an answer, whatever it may be, turning him petulant.

_Or was it flirtatious?_

_Or both?_

Glorfindel bought himself some time, by walking slowly toward Legolas and laying his own hand upon the trunk. It was a heady sensation connecting with the tree that was also connected to Legolas, and he took a deep breath at the rushing greetings. He opened his eyes, not knowing he had even closed them.

"And what would I find up there?" he asked the prince, quietly.

Meaningfully. Glorfindel moved slowly and deliberately, but he realized his pulse was racing and there was warmth coursing through his body.

Glorfindel had been to many courts and even in this kingdom's relative isolation and danger, he had a feeling this extraordinary princely son of Thranduil's must have at least some experience himself - of dalliances and romance and playful little interactions or perhaps more. The fact that the other soldiers had given them some berth made it clear to Glorfindel he was not the only one sensing games were afoot here. For his part though, he had long been done playing them. War and death tended to have that sobering effect. Besides, he had a sneaking suspicion he was out of his depth with Legolas. One of them was vastly older than the other but neither of them were children.

He did not know where the prince wanted to take this or why.

Legolas did not answer him. He turned his back on Glorfindel and said dismissively, "I suppose you will follow if you follow. Do what you want."

Soundlessly, he vanished up the damn tree. Glorfindel looked up at the branches overhead, surprised he could lose sight of Legolas so quickly. He sighed.

_You were young once, weren't you?_ he asked himself._ When you climbed trees and jumped off of cliffs, and dove untold depths and sailed boundless seas, when things could mean either nothing but also possibly, everything?_

He climbed.

_Quickly._

Maybe too quickly.

Glorfindel had some skill in climbing and the natural balance of an exceptional member of his kin, but a wood-elf he was not. To say he slipped was embarrassing, but he had perhaps what one may call an inadequate grip upon a particularly slippery, misshapen branch.

He fell, but not far at all.

He was caught at the wrist by the powerful hand of a gifted archer, and _good gods_, were there slim branches and vines twined about it?

Glorfindel's gaze crawled up the elegant digits of Legolas' hand, and followed the flora that wound around the slim wrist up to the strong, firm forearm. The sentient branches started crawling down to his own hand too, and for a long moment, he and Legolas were knotted together by the forest.

Legolas pulled him to his feet and steadied him. The prince let the warlord's wrist go, but the branches stayed where they were a bit longer, binding the two golden elves together.

The Woodland Prince hissed at the tree in disapproving Silvan, and its branches slithered away. He softened his tone by laying his freed hand over the trunk gently.

"We will go higher," he said to Glorfindel. "But you will go first. I will not let you fall."

Glorfindel looked down, and then up. They were already so high, and the tree was so mighty they were still ways away from the top. Over his head was a tangle of leaves and branches and he was skeptical anyone but a wood-elf could navigate them without peril. But even as he thought so, the branches moved, the leaves shifted, and unfolded before him they looked almost like a laddered tunnel up to the multihued twilight sky. Suddenly the path seemed clearly laid out before him.

He could not help it - he smiled, broadly. The sight of the setting day and emerging night sharing one boundless heaven speckled with stars delighted him to no end, as it did most of their kin. He turned his eyes to Legolas and laughed, eager to share his mirth.

A smile trembled upon Legolas' lips too, but he was not looking up at the heavens. He was looking at the ancient warlord's face, with a soft expression of such strangely forlorn fondness. So forlorn his eyes watered and sparkled, starlit too.

He walked to Glorfindel and reached for the edges of the cloak that covered the ancient warlord's golden head. He lowered it to the other's shoulders, and shook out the hair to fall freely about. The tips of his fingers danced on Glorfindel's skin here and there again – his neck, the hollow near his collarbone. Again, Glorfindel felt paper thin and breathless. He was breakable, at a precipice, as if he stood on the edge of a cliff or in the quiet eye of an otherwise raging storm. Even the vibrant forest hushed.

"There is not much hiding it," Legolas said quietly. "The light always seems to find you, my lord."

He looked up at Glorfindel, and his eyes were liquid. The ancient warlord could not look away and he could not voice his retort – You're one to speak. For even in the nearing night and by dim starlight, Legolas was the dawn. His elegant, sculpted face was open and clear and bright.

_You are exquisite_, Glorfindel thought,_ and I am only an old fool_.

"I see now," the prince went on, "why the gods saw it fit to send you back over all else. You are unsullied, even after everything you have seen and done. Darkness and shadow cannot touch you or mar you. You are life and joy. If all the voices of the world were an orchestra, you are the soaring instruments of wind, the playful, whistling breath that dances lightly above the earth strings. Your feet – they do not touch the ground."

He made his bold proclamation and stepped away seemingly without expectation, as if saying things just as they were. _The sky was blue and you are one whom I lo-value..._

And it was just as well because Glorfindel had no words to say, barely even any coherent thought to give voice to.

What he did know though, was that the step Legolas had taken away from him felt like an affront – a single step away, was a step too far. With that one movement, a spell was broken. It felt as if the air cackled and snapped, and things returned again to what they were, leaving one to wonder if what one thought happened had even happened at all.

"We will go higher," Legolas said to Glorfindel again. "But you will go first. I will not let you fall."

"What will I find up there?" Glorfindel asked, also again.

Legolas closed his eyes and pressed at the bridge of his nose. He opened his mouth and promptly shut it, saying instead – "The stars and the skies, and other than that I do not know."

Glorfindel looked at him for a long moment. What answer did he want? And what did he himself actually want, for these were two different things?

A million thoughts raced through his mind. He went on this mission out of duty, but slowly the people of the Woodland became a personal curiosity. Out of that grew compassion and respect for them collectively, and then enjoyment of the companionship of, and genuine friendship with this particular wood-elf.  
The... attraction, he had to admit, was perhaps always there underlying everything. Thranduil's son was exquisite, undeniable in his beauty but especially so in honor and bearing, and the sunbursts of surprising humor. Glorfindel said it himself to Silon – there was much to admire, even before he had seen the gifted warrior fight. What made that attraction and admiration palpably uncomfortable now, he realized, was _possibility_.

With Legolas' gentle touches and earnest confessions of his own caring and regard, suddenly he was... _possible_.

And Glorfindel was unsure how he felt about that. After all, he was still much older, he was still a guest of the Elvenking, and he still had a job to do.

They both did.

So what did he want?

_What will I find up there_, he had asked.

_The stars and the skies and other than that I do not know_, Legolas had answered.

"Well," Glorfindel said finally, "the stars and the skies are almost always enough."

They climbed.

**# # #**

Glorfindel burst through the canopy, and he settled contentedly upon an obliging branch as he looked out at the vast expanse of heavens overhead and beneath it, a sea of lush treetops extending north, south east and west, bounded by distant mountains and a winding, mighty river. Legolas' woodland home was beautiful, and Glorfindel took a deep, indulgent breath in appreciation of it all.

Legolas emerged beside him, soundless, farther than he had been when they were talking below in the shadow of the trees. He sat on branches easily, as if he were on a rock upon a plain carpeted by autumn leaves.

He breathed in too, in much the same manner as Glorfindel had but with closed eyes and released in an exhaled sigh. Only afterwards did he look up across the darkening sky.

"Look," Glorfindel said, pointing at a majestic sight in the near distance; a burst of wispy clouds hovered around the almost completely set, haloed sun. "Isn't that beautiful?"

"It heralds a snowstorm," Legolas said quietly, and there was an edged disappointment to it that Glorfindel could not help but catch.

"You have acquired the long view of the gods I think," Legolas expounded. "From afar the storm is beautiful, but for those who live it – waters rise, temperatures drop, crops fail, sometimes people die. The same holds for war and hardship – there is some beauty in it from afar, I suppose. It builds character, it shows quality. But on the ground, blood is shed and lives are lost.

"We are so small," he continued in a contemplative murmur. "Our lives are even more distant to the gods than that 'beautiful' snowstorm is to you. How could they possibly hear us? And even if they did – why would they listen?"

He turned his blue, blue eyes to Glorfindel, who almost heard accusation in the question but mostly he saw quiet despair.

"They hear and they listen," Glorfindel promised him quietly. "But the answers... they just aren't always what we want or expect."

"Maybe silence is better."

"Some would say that..."

"Not you though," Legolas pointed out. He tilted his head at the older elf. "You have such trust of the gods and their plans and visions. Given the trajectory of you life, I suppose you have more cause for faith than most. But are you ever... ever in wanting?"

Glorfindel frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Do you ever still pray for things?" Legolas asked earnestly. "Do you still ask, or do you now only accept? I mean, tell me this - what was the last thing you prayed for?"

Glorfindel pondered the question. It was true; given the course of his life, he had unwavering belief in the ultimate goodness of those who gave them existence and their promises of salvation. But did he have so much faith that he had ceased wanting...? That he had ceased to desire beyond whatever was laid out before him? That he had ceased praying for...

_You_, Glorfindel suddenly remembered, achingly. _The last thing I prayed for, was you_.

_I prayed for your light. Before that, I prayed for your relief._

_I prayed for you._

"You," Glorfindel answered, tightly.

The answer surprised them both, for Glorfindel found he could accept all the circumstances of his current life save for this: the suffering of Legolas. Even in his recent near-death he did not ask for salvation or sparing from pain. But lately, he had been asking the gods to look after Legolas.

"I pray for you."

**'til the next post! TO BE CONTINUED...**


	13. The Gathering Storm

_**Hello gang!**_

_Thank you to everyone sticking with me on this. I promised a slow burn narrative, not aslow-posting, hahaha. I have a few chapters ready to put up, I am just pacing them. I am also committed to the conclusion of this fic. It's just that - LIFE! I mean it's been good, but busy busy good. And after this is finished I might need to be absent for a time again (hopefully not as long as the last time!). Between working and the fanfictional vice, haha, my own original fiction has been taking a backseat and I know that as much as we are fans of something, we should also be building things and find a balance. Anyways that is a decision for when this fic is finished :) __For now - I would just like to say, thank you kind reviewers. You power me through. Please continue to feed the writer with whatever you can; constructive c&cs are always welcome and they help me be better. If you can't review, that is okay too :) I just hope everyone is enjoying the rearing as much as I am enjoying the writing :) Best wishes all, and without further ado:_

**# # #**

**13: The Gathering Storm**

**# # #**

_Eryn Galen, T.A. 2851_

**# # #**

Legolas sensed them first; he stiffened and backed away from Glorfindel, and looked down at the thick leaves in anticipation of the new arrivals he had heard coming up.

"What is so great up here that two of Arda's most golden creatures should risk life and limb and climb so high for it?"

It was Silon who asked as he emerged from the canopy of leaves, though in poorly executed faux humor. His eyes had taken on a pleading, uncertain, desperation – it was clear that he had his suspicions about what was going on up in the tree, just as it was clear he harbored hopes he was wrong. Glorfindel almost winced in sympathy and perhaps... apology.

_Admire is a small word_, Silon had told him of his own feelings for the prince. _Admire is a small word_...

Captain Tauriel's pretty red head popped up next, with her sharp, intelligent gaze trained suspiciously on the unhappy lot of all of them. Glorfindel thought back then, to how adverse Legolas had been to her inclusion in their traveling party. Duty had something to do with it of course, but he wondered now, if Legolas had any inkling something like this would happen too – that he would be in the company of Silon who loved him, Glorfindel whom he apparently _lo-valued_, and Tauriel with whom he had whatever nameless thing it was that hovered between them.

"Well?" she prodded her prince, "have you an answer for Silon, Legolas? What is so great up here?"

The blond wood-elf jerked his head in the direction of the haloed setting sun, and the wispy clouds Glorfindel had previously adored. "Look for yourself."

The two wood-elf soldiers winced and said with displeasure, almost in unison – "That is a gathering storm."

**# # #**

It was a short road to their destination at the northernmost outpost of Eryn Galen, but with non-combatants and convalescents, Tauriel kept a conservative pace.

After a shared meal followed a few hours of rest, on a rotation where predictably, Tauriel assigned first watch to herself. Glorfindel's second-in-command, Istor, also predictably volunteered himself to join her. The ancient warlord supposed it was both so that he could watch over Glorfindel, as well as keep the fetching commander he was besotted with company. Neither Glorfindel nor Legolas were placed on the roster.

Legolas' fine features were pinched at the thought that he was considered in need of rest, but he bit back his tongue with a pointed look from Glorfindel. It was a reminder of the promise of compliance they had made to each other, to keep to Tauriel's chain of command.

"If you can suffer it gladly," Legolas said to Glorfindel under his breath, "I suppose I can do the same."

Glorfindel smirked, but said nothing as he prepared to rest in his sleeping sack.

The traveling party had a small fire in a neat pit and were organized around it, though Legolas settled farther off, all but snuggling up to the closest tree. Glorfindel didn't know if it was a trick of the light, a wood-elf talent to find and squeeze into nature's nooks, or if that trunk somehow bent and curled around him... but that was sure how it looked like.

The younger blonde settled in, and he smiled at Glorfindel lazily before his eyes took on the vacant look of dreaming. He may not have thought he needed the rest, but his body perhaps knew better, and sleep claimed him quickly. His restful pose made for a gentle, warming sight.

Silon settled protectively beside him, but subserviently near his booted feet. He gave Glorfindel a hard look and a short nod of cold acknowledgement. Apparently, as easily as admiration for the prince won for Glorfindel loyal Silon's favor, Legolas' seeming return of that affection had won for him, the unrequitedly besotted Silon's disapproval.

**# # #**

The traveling party made multiple stops not only for rest and meals, but also for the sporadic releasing of the homing birds at varying distances. Garavon marked and cooed at each one, telling them to find their way home, back to his cottage in the stronghold where another apprentice awaited their return.

The two Imladris elves, Istor and Glorfindel, watched his techniques carefully for application in their own home, while the Woodland elves either made camp, kept watch, discussed the progress of their trip, or looked on at what Garavon was doing.

On one stop, Tauriel was one of the latter and her intelligent eyes devoured the proceedings with innate curiosity.

"What is the rate at which these birds can successfully find their way home?" she asked.

"Well," said Garavon, "the closer we are to the stronghold, the higher they are likely to succeed of course. The farther we go, the likelihood drops. Aside from training the birds, that is also what we are determining here. If I have that information, I would know how many birds to bring, how much loss we can live with."

"What happens to the birds who don't get home?" asked Silon.

Garavon sighed. "Some of them take longer than others but eventually find their way. Others roam. Others die."

Garavon ended that particular stop's release on the somber note, saddened now by the reminder that while he was doing something important for his kingdom, he was also meant to lose some of his beloved birds in the process.

Perceptive Tauriel decided to set camp early then, while the sensitive Silon and rambunctious Renior took Garavon in hand with a few jokes and Rossenith prepared a hearty meal, recruiting Istor and the gamekeeper's apprentices for water and fire. Naturally, no one instructed the two ranking officers into anything.

Legolas watched his people quietly, with a grim satisfaction that as tough as the situation was, everyone was doing their jobs and looking after each other properly.

Glorfindel, on the other hand, watched Legolas. He wasn't surprised when the prince turned to him and asked again:

"Would you come up with me?"

**# # #**

Glorfindel climbed with Legolas at the rear in case he fell. But the truth was, Glorfindel had always been a quick study and now found the physical task easy. It was the mental task of coming up there with Legolas that had become harder.

He did not bother to ask, _What will I find up there_? this time. He suspected Legolas did not know himself. Were they to have some kind of philosophical existential discussion about the gods and war and life and death? Were they to debate the merits of mercy killing? Were they to fall into silence looking at the view? Were they to flirt, to fight?

Othe_r than the stars and the skies, other than the stars and the skies... who knew what the heck was up there?_

But the truth was, Glorfindel wanted Legolas' company. He was not sure what that entailed and what it meant, but at the barest bones of his innumerable, unspeakable uncertainties, this he knew for sure: he wanted Legolas' company. For all of its complications and simplicities, that was all that he wanted.

They broke through the top. They settled in the branches. They sat side by side. Their shoulders touched. The tips of their golden hair teased at each other and some strands, whipped by a gentle wind, tangled.

This time around, they had a view of the Woodland at midmorning. It was _flatter_ at this time of the day - whiter, less shadows. It was never Glorfindel's favorite time of the day for this reason, but in this naked light, the plain splendor of Legolas' home was revelatory in itself. How large and rich it was, how vast, how daunting.

"Yours is a beautiful home, Legolas."

The other elf smiled, wide and naked and generous. But not at Glorfindel, no. It was an expression reserved for the sublime view before them. A dimple winked at his chiseled cheek, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and Glorfindel was almost jealous of the Woodland, for it knew what it felt like to be the beneficiary of that singular expression.

"It is, isn't it?" Legolas murmured, contentedly.

"I wonder how it all looks like in the dawn," said Glorfindel. "That I think, is my favorite time of day."

Legolas turned to face him with a look of curiosity. "Most people prefer sunsets, I thought you might."

Glorfindel wondered if that was why it was what he was shown first yesterday, but before he could come to any real or meaningful conclusions, Legolas said with grim determination:

"I will make arrangements. I will fetch you the dawn."

**# # #**

Ever efficient and objectives-oriented, the Woodland Prince fulfilled his promise come the very next morning.

The pair of golden elves were not given a night watch again, though this time Legolas did not seem to mind; he and Glorfindel owned their time. What Legolas did with his was to rise early and stir Glorfindel up into a gentle waking.

Glorfindel first settled dream-glazed eyes at the disruptor of his sleep, but the empty gaze filled with alertness quickly. Legolas' silhouette sharpened, his visage became clearer and more defined, and Glorfindel found himself smiling at being woken by this sight.

Oblivious, the prince pulled him to his feet. Glorfindel rose from his sleeping sack, and let himself be taken to the base of a thick tree.

They passed Istor, who was on a scheduled watch. Glorfindel's second-in-command looked at them worriedly, and Glorfindel could hardly blame him. Istor was at least as perceptive as the other soldiers in their traveling party, and likely sensed something was afoot between Legolas and the Imladrian warlord too.

All of this was, Glorfindel had to admit, uncharacteristic. Since his return to Arda he'd mostly lost his appetite for romance, and though he'd had a lover here and there, his interactions with them were minimal, discreet, short-lived and non-committal. This was also unlike him because he had a job to do here, and was keenly aware that he could potentially jeopardize their relations with the mercurial, unpredictable Thranduil by dallying with his beloved son.

Glorfindel gave Istor a vague nod of acknowledgement, which his second-in-command returned with a hesitant but compliant one. Again, Glorfindel could not blame the other elf; even he did not know what reassurances he was providing. Either way, for now at least, Istor was satisfied and turned away from the pair to focus on his watch.

As they did hours before, the two golden elves climbed the tree with Glorfindel ahead and Legolas following protectively at the rear.

_They broke through the top. They settled in the branches. They sat side by side. Their shoulders touched. The tips of their golden hair teased at each other and some strands, whipped by a gentle wind, tangled..._

Glorfindel looked out at the breathtaking view of daylight creeping into the vast, boundless sky. The moon and stars were still out, hanging on a high layer of black slowly brightening to deep blue. There was a brilliant orange gold light bisecting the heavens, gradually widening. It grew larger, crept upward and outward until the last refuge of night turned lighter, and the brilliance of the sun obscured the moon and the stars.

Glorfindel sighed contentedly.

"I should have known you would prefer the sunrise," Legolas said quietly, "it goes with all this hoping of yours."

You _are the dawn_, Glorfindel thought.

"Are there other permutations of times of day I can fetch for you?" Legolas asked, only half-jesting.

Glorfindel cleared his throat. "Thank you for this, Legolas. It is... it is breathtaking. How can I possibly ask for more?"

Legolas looked at him, expression soft with gratitude for the other's genuine appreciation of his home. Together, they watched the sun rise for a long, quiet moment.

When it was high in the sky, Legolas spoke.

"I've been missing your company, I think," he said with a small, nervous laugh. "I suspect I've become accustomed to having you all to myself at some point of the day."

"Like an unhealthy habit," Glorfindel quipped.

Legolas' lips quirked. "That... remains to be seen."

They fell to companionable silence, but again after voicing his affection, Legolas physically and mentally backed away. Glorfindel could swear he felt it, the moment when the final strand of the fabric of the other elf's sleeve pulled away from where it touched his. He imagined the tiny pinprick heads of thread parting.

"Why do you do that?" he asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

Glorfindel hesitated. Do what? What _exactly_ was the other elf doing anyway? '_Nevermind_' was on the tip of his tongue, but Legolas had turned earnest eyes on him then, seemingly begging for some release of the yet-nameless thing that has been hovering over them since Glorfindel realized he was _lo-valued_ here.

"You tell me these things and then slip away," Glorfindel replied with narrowed eyes. He found he was suddenly, slightly inexplicably annoyed. He never participated much in courtly games and when he did he only marginally enjoyed them – but that was back when he was younger, and when he was better at it.

"You say my feet do not touch the ground," Glorfindel said, "yet I cannot fly past your walls. You miss my company but you pull away from it. You... you..."

Legolas' ivory cheeks turned rosy, to Glorfindel's disarmed surprise.

"Well," replied the prince, "when you praise someone, as in the case when you pray to your gods... you say your piece and then leave it to their mercies, do you not? What right have I to wait and expect anything from you?"

"I am not worthy of anyone's praises," said Glorfindel, "and I am hardly a god. And... and if I may say, you certainly have a right to expect anything you want from me. _Anything_. But what is it that you do want?"

Legolas' brows furrowed in confusion. "I..."

Glorfindel laughed at himself in embarrassment, and ran a hand over his face. "What? What, Legolas? What are you doing and what do you want?"

"I did not expect this conversation to get this far," murmured the other, "Let me think."

Glorfindel let out a frustrated sigh. "You... you make me feel..."

"Confused?" Legolas supplied, "Impatient? Angry?"

Glorfindel was all these things and more. All these things _but_ more. Legolas made him feel conflicted about his mission - and desires - here. Legolas made him feel worried about their world and their place within it. Legolas made him feel desirous but unworthy of earnest, open affection. Legolas made him feel adrift, uncertain as he hasn't been for a long time. Legolas made him feel longing.

Legolas made him feel un-whole, with a space in his heart slowly being carved in the shape and likeness of someone they both knew, a space that would sit empty until it is filled by that one, specific shape. But the carving was unfinished. It was beginning to look like Legolas, but it was a work in progress.

"You make me _feel_," Glorfindel decided.

The other elf bit his lower lip and chewed at it in thinly veiled pleasure.

"But you also make me _think_," Glorfindel pointed out.

"Ah well there is that," Legolas conceded with weary humor.

_After all_, thought Glorfindel,_ if this bleeding, broken prince does not understand duty and priorities, who can?_

Legolas took a deep breath. "All right. How may I divest thee of some of these burdens?"

"I am too old to play games and so I prefer we say the things we mean and we mean the things we say," Glorfindel said.

"You are ageless," Legolas corrected him. "But I prefer this course of action myself."

"What do you hope to achieve when you bring me here?" Glorfindel asked bluntly, "saying the things you do?"

"I enjoy your company – for all that it means."

"And all that it doesn't," Glorfindel pointed out. "Does it mean nothing or does it mean everything?"

"Am I toying with you or am I marrying you?" Legolas asked with a small, surprised laugh. He smothered it for Glorfindel's apparent irritation, but his eyes crinkled in warm amusement. "I do not toy, and I cannot marry. In the meantime, am I supposed to be – and I mean this physically and otherwise - abstinent?"

"You cannot marry?"

"Living as I do, would you?"

Glorfindel frowned in thought but agreed wordlessly on this rather sad fact – with the world as dark as it was, Legolas feared marrying meant the creation of a widow rather than the maintenance of a wife. Glorfindel asked instead, "You want my company and that is all?" Strangely enough, it had echoed his own thoughts.

"For now," Legolas said wryly.

"You were not..." _as much in need? as forward and unrestrained? _"You were not like this in _your father's_ halls," Glorfindel told him.

"Wasn't I?" asked Legolas, making Glorfindel think.

_You are able to find joy in many things_, Legolas had told him once, _A quality I certainly admire..._

In another instance, when Legolas had been drunk and Silon told him they found shelter in Glorfindel's rooms, he smiled and teased: _There are certainly worse places to be_.

And most notably, _I've come to care for you – _greatly_ \- in the time you've been here..._

"If I am more brazen now I cannot tell," Legolas said with an easy laugh. "But I have been told - the woods make me free and fey."

The leaves around them seemed to stir and bristle in agreement.

"At any rate I had no cause to miss one whose company I could solely claim at least at one point of every day," Legolas said with a wistful smile. "A minute or so walking you to your rooms and it brings not only joy in the moment, but something to look forward to all the day through. All it took was minute or so... and you did not even know."

Glorfindel's heart pounded in his chest, so loudly he would be surprised if Legolas beside him couldn't feel it.

"You are too used to admiration I think," Legolas said grimly, to Glorfindel's chagrin. Was that really why he had suspected nothing, or dismissed the possibility of Legolas' earnest attentions? "You are also busy with your divine missions to bother with the likes of me."

"The likes of you..." Glorfindel murmured.

He could admit he suffered admiration casually because his history subjected him frequently to the esteem of many elves. But the slight Legolas was making against his own worth was something Glorfindel could not let pass.

"But I am out of my league with you," Glorfindel told him.

"That is what I am saying," Legolas agreed with a small nod. "You are an ancient lord favored by the gods, golden in every imaginable way. I am only a soiled, wood-elf archer-"

"That you are the skilled and dutiful prince of a magnificent land," Glorfindel said, "That you are the fairest I have ever seen of our kin... all of this is nothing compared to the barest light of your soul. Do you understand what I am trying to say, Legolas? You carry with ease that which would make anyone lesser exceptional, for these are only the least of you. You say my feet do not touch the ground? You may be right but that is only because I am on my knees. I am out of my league with _you_."

Legolas stared at him with stricken blue eyes, a gaze of desperate fear and more desperate hope that Glorfindel held, even as he wondered if he himself looked the same.

He had previously felt that they were at the edge of a cliff, and now they've jumped. It remains to be seen how they would land. From these heights, the only possible outcomes were gory messes or miraculous, cushioned landings. Glorfindel prayed for a miracle.

_I pray _for_ you_, he thought.

_I pray for _you_, _he realized.

Even if the words were the same the structure of the sentence was different, dramatically altering its meaning. The first meant he prayed on behalf of the welfare of the other. The second... well. The second crystalized to Glorfindel what more – or, _who - _he wanted from the gods, didn't it?

Legolas licked at his full lips, and he sounded breathless when he spoke. "I must admit, I did not know this conversation would go this way."

"Neither did I," Glorfindel admitted. "But here we are, now what do we do?"

Legolas' sparkling eyes teased. "I should defer to my elder for such things, I think."

"I am ageless," Glorfindel told him wryly, "Or so I've been told."

Legolas smiled at him and sighed. It was a good feeling to admire and be admired in return, Glorfindel knew. But the two of them were also inextricably who they were, with all the complexities attached.

"Romancing the prince will not jeopardize your diplomatic efforts with _aran-nin_ if you worry about that," Legolas opened. "He can be very surprisingly objective. And when he isn't, that is why the Elvenking is wise to keep councilors and listen to them."

Glorfindel accepted this with a nod. They both knew, their work and duties almost always had to go first.

"I also must say I cannot promise you anything," Glorfindel confessed. "My time in your home is fleeting, and the work yet to be done will take precedence above all."

"I concur," Legolas said, "And my situation is the same."

Glorfindel nodded again. "Which brings me to a related concern. I am worried that I have nothing to promise you, but at the same time my presence jeopardizes your... potential relations with more viable and sustainable partners. Surely you must know – we hurt other people whenever we are here."

Legolas winced, slightly. "You speak of Tauriel. And... Silon."

Glorfindel found the stomach to joke, "Oh? I thought Renior."

Legolas' lip quirked, but he did not laugh. "They will hurt either way, I'm afraid. Until the darkness is defeated, there are no viable mates for me in the Woodland. My position necessitates I send the best warriors to the worst fronts, as needed by the kingdom. Tauriel and Silon are amongst our best, and I refuse to put myself in the untenable position of either sidelining a fine soldier at risk to the kingdom to spare my heart, or possibly assigning them to their deaths. I might lose my mind either way, I think."

"So a lesser soldier would have a better chance at marrying the _ernil_?" Glorfindel teased gently, for Legolas' voice trembled even the barest thought of the options he had outlined.

The other's anxiety died down and he quipped,

"Why do you think I've acquired a liking for you?"

Glorfindel laughed.

Legolas smiled at him indulgently, and reached for the tips of Glorfindel's hair at the neck, near again the collarbone he was strangely fixated with.

"And so it is agreed," he murmured. "Duties come first and there are no promises."

"All I want is your company," Glorfindel said.

"A little bit of you all to myself everyday," Legolas added earnestly, "Anytime I can steal it."

They grinned at each other in agreement, and quietly turned to the bright Woodland morning spread wide before them.

After a long, wordless moment filled with each of their respective thoughts, Legolas murmured, "All time nowadays seems stolen anyway."

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

'Til the next post!


	14. Stolen

_** hello everyone!**_

_Massive thanks to readers and especially to reviewers. The reviews really fire me up and I know people won't always have the time or inclination, so I really, really, really appreciate you sharing your time and thoughts to help me be a better writer and a better member of this community :) __I've started sending out responses, but hardly enough... RL is so crazy lately, but I know not just for me. So I am posting now, in the earnest hope that a bit of a distraction soothes a bit of all of us :) Stay safe, healthy and positive everyone! As always, c&c's are welcome, and I hope you enjoy the read as much as I enjoy the writing :)_

# # #

**14: Stolen**

# # #

_Mirkwood, T.A. 2851_

# # #

When they next stopped for a few hours of rest, Legolas purposefully stalked to the space next to Glorfindel. The older elf received his company with a mix of suffused delight and mild embarrassment. He was being _claimed_ brazenly, as he never had been before.

They lay side by side to sleep, close enough that Glorfindel suspected their hair splayed about the leaves on the ground were catching and tangling. Glorfindel could feel the mildest shift and hear the slightest breath of the younger elf beside him.

It was an inexplicably warming feeling, having such connection with someone, to claim and be claimed.

They did not speak, but their breaths eventually matched. Glorfindel stared up at the canopy of leaves overhead, and he opened his soul to Legolas, unobtrusively welcoming him through if he so desired. It was like beginning a familiar tune low on the breath and waiting for someone to join in and make it a duet.

Legolas' sweet strains followed as hoped, and the quiet hum of a new song lulled them both to sleep.

**# # #**

A jarring awakening.

Glorfindel felt Legolas' presence wrenched from him, and his eyes snapped open in sudden awareness. He looked at the elf beside him, still asleep, still there but... _elsewhere_.

His elegant brows were furrowed in distress, his mouth parted slightly in quiet gasps, his half-lidded eyes lost in foul dreaming. Once in a while his head would jerk or his body, and Glorfindel reached to wake him.

He stopped at a hiss from Silon, and Glorfindel raised his eyes to find Legolas' loyal second-in-command awake. Tauriel, assigned the watch at the time, was also up and looking at him and Legolas.

Silon shook his head at Glorfindel in wordless prohibition, and he remembered then, how lethal Legolas could be when startled awake.

"That is an occupational hazard," Glorfindel murmured.

Tauriel gave him a dry, humorous look, but her eyes softened as she said quietly. "We all have them, sometimes. He has more cause for nightmares than most, unfortunately."

Silon found a serviceable pebble from the ground, and he sent the little thing sailing in Legolas' direction. It barely made a sound landing near Legolas' head, but it did the trick; the _ernil's_ gaze sharpened in rapid waking, and his jerking body regained its careful control. He sat up easily, and without acknowledging any of the three elves, he went up the nearest tree with an enviable feline grace that almost had him flying.

Glorfindel did not wait for an invitation to climb, this time.

**# # #**

Legolas' eyes were unreadable, feral. He'd confessed to being more fey in the shadow of the woods and the embrace of the trees, and Glorfindel saw it to full effect, now.

He was waiting.

The moment Glorfindel broke through the canopy of the impossibly high tree they had both climbed, Legolas, that wild child of the dark forest, _pounced_.

The Woodland Prince leaned over the ancient warlord and pressed his lips to the other's - mouth open from the very moment they touched. He took Glorfindel's air, tore through his defenses, robbed him of his senses...

Save for the taste of his desperation and soundless anguish.

Legolas' kiss was a silent scream into Glorfindel's mouth and he took it, for all that it was – the destructive force, the claim and use of his body. If Legolas regretted any of it later – a possibility, Glorfindel conceded – he would take that too.

Legolas was incendiary, and Glorfindel was on fire.

**# # #**

"Why does fear always trail so closely after love?"

The quiet question came from Legolas minutes later - a breathless kiss later, a lifetime later... for after it things have changed, irrevocably.

"I don't know much about, about love," Glorfindel said. He hesitated, because they've not spoken openly and directly about "love" before. He wasn't sure _that_ was what _this _was, or if either of them had any right to claim it so.

"But I know a lot about loss," Glorfindel went on; a concept he was surer of. "And the fear of it. That is the missing link, I suppose. To love something is to fear the loss of it. Love and fear are such brutal complements."

They went together. But what made his heart ache for Legolas was how quickly the bad trailed after the good – that he should find affection and not even have a few hours' reprieve from the fear that inevitably followed it.

_Not even a few hours' reprieve_.

"Almost everything I love I..."

_I lose_, Glorfindel filled in for Legolas, who found no heart to say it, just as Glorfindel did not find the heart to lie and contest it. He watched the other's face quietly instead, drawn from the despair of memory, eyes overbright.

"I will tell you the last memory of my brother that I have," Legolas said, mustering a stronger voice. "He was in my sights, and it was a shot I had to make, do you understand? _I_ had to _make_ it."

Glorfindel's blood turned cold, and his breath caught, and whenever he felt he had an understanding of this place and these people and this prince, he would hear something like this.

"He knew he was being taken," Legolas said. "He knew he was lost. And when I aimed at him he looked at me with such, such gratitude. I let the arrow fly. They told me I hit the mark perfectly, that he did not suffer. That I'd made the most important shot of my life, the shot I couldn't miss. But I did not look – I only have the word of others for it. My courage failed me then. But the last I remember of my brother -_ gratitude_." He licked his dry lips. "I wonder if you'd ever have seen him, over in Mandos' Halls."

"I do not think so, Legolas."

Legolas nodded grimly. "Probably not, otherwise you'd know it. He is-was-would be hard to miss. Very formidable, more like _adar_ than me. And... well, I suppose there's an unhealthily large population of dead wood-elves over there. How could you possibly find one, the place is probably gods-be-damned lousy with dead wood-elves by now."

**# # #**

The trees were uneasy.

Soon into their resumed journey, Legolas noticed it first and best; he was Woodland Prince after all, and his awareness of the forest ran in his veins. But soon the sensation had become unmissable to the rest of the party too, including the foreigners among them.

If the trees could speak coherently of what bothered them though, then there would have been little need of messenger birds to begin with. All they could convey was a churning disturbance that seemed to grow as the traveling party ventured northwards.

They moved forward on high alert, in a protective formation that had non-combatants well-covered by Tauriel at the lead and Renior at the rear. Between them, Silon and Istor flanked each of their commanding officers, Legolas and Glorfindel, with the non-soldiers of the party clustered at the very middle. They formed a slow-moving diamond shape, each of the points manned by a skilled and fit warrior.

Tauriel wordlessly motioned for a halt and for the members of the group to stay low. She conferred with Legolas behind her in a low voice.

"We should have encountered or at least sensed a patrol from the northernmost outpost by now," she said. "And yet it cannot be an orcish enemy incursion that has caused this anomaly – the trees do not feel as they usually do in such attacks."

"But what else could it be?" hissed Silon beside the thoughtful prince, "some new evil yet unknown to us?"

"You've reviewed the latest intelligence reports from our northern outposts before we began our journey?" Legolas asked.

"Of course," Tauriel said. "The threats from the north are the same as they have always been – existent, but dormant. Minimal and containable at worst."

Glorfindel remembered his own intelligence briefings on the matter as well. To the north of Mirkwood was a vast territory of such potentially powerful forces that even they have all been keeping to themselves and preferring not to stir the pot, lately. The Grey Mountains covered the entirety of Mirkwood's north. At its westernmost end, they met the Misty Mountains at Gundabad. Here dwelt orcish forces of particularly high caliber. At its eastern end, the range split to form a valley, the Withered Heath, where long-unseen dragons bred. In the mountains between the east and the west, there used to dwell dwarves in settlements, sandwiched between both menaces. They have wisely long decamped, even if they had good claim to the territory as its original and most benevolent settlers.

"What is the 'minimal and containable' danger, when it does happen?" Istor asked.

"Spiders every now and again," Tauriel answered. "Mostly orc incursions from Gundabad but nothing large or organized. They make sport of the occasional skirmish with us at the edges of the woods, but there is no real strategy to break through into the forest kingdom. Other times, we are not the targets but we still choose to engage them if we spot them from our northern outposts. When they venture down from their mountain strongholds and skip us, it is usually to raid and harass travelers or mannish settlements at the edges of our territories. These are more vulnerable peoples than Thranduil's soldiers, so we try to help when we can. Like I said – minimal and containable. But I do not believe this is what distresses the forest. The unease of the trees do not suggest an orc threat." She jerked her head at Legolas' loyal Silon. "Scout?"

"Aye, Captain," he said, straightening up and securing his weapons; he needed stealth more for this task. Instinctively, he looked at Glorfindel before leaving, and said of Legolas:

"Look after him for me."

**# # #**

The company stayed low, save for Legolas who was apparently unused or ill-fitting in the position of waiting. He stayed on his feet, arms loose but ready on his sides, his posture stooped slightly forward, all his senses on high alert. He looked like a wild animal tasting the wind.

"Get up," he commanded his people in a soft but authoritative murmur, even before Silon's whistling signal pierced the hushed forest. It was not a tune of immediate alarm, and so at Tauriel's lead, they ventured forward warily, continuing on their path to the northernmost outpost. But they certainly moved faster.

Silon met them partway through, and he was flushed and breathless as he reported, "Ah, Legolas. You are not going to believe it."

Legolas gave him a clipped nod to continue.

"The entire place is heavily asleep!" Silon exclaimed.

The response was an alarming but mostly confusing one to Glorfindel. What did it mean, for a whole group of hardened Silvan soldiers to be asleep at their posts? He was not the only one to feel this way.

"What madness is that?" Renior asked. "Some wizardly spell? Some drunken irresponsibility? An unheard of illness? A new evil we are yet to encounter? How could that possibly be?"

Legolas grit his teeth and his hands fisted at his sides. "Silon..."

Silon grimaced; he knew the opening of his report had been an inadequate one. He corrected quickly, and even added in information that the non-soldiers and foreigners among them might not know.

"This outpost – the northernmost point of Eryn Galen – is comprised of a handful of high _telain_ up on the trees with an unobscured view facing the mountains. These elevated _telain_ include archer-armed lookouts and soldiers' living quarters. Beneath them, there is a grounded outpost of spearmen and a homestead. There is a stable and a paddock, a garden and some farmland to sustain the contingent, supply storage, and living quarters for families of the few soldiers who have accepted long-term assignments here. When I say everyone is asleep, Captain, I mean precisely that. A population of forty at least, soldiers and noncombatants alike – heavily and unnaturally asleep with their eyes closed, based on my initial survey."

"You are certain they're alive?" Tauriel asked.

"Yes, and seemingly otherwise unharmed." Silon glanced at Rossenith. "The healer will be more able to ascertain, of course."

Tauriel glanced fleetingly at Legolas, but the command was going to be up to her and they both knew it. Her gaze quickly turned steely.

"Could it be some form of malady?" Tauriel asked.

"There is nothing in all of our people's recorded history that can account for a sleeping sickness of the like Silon describes," Rossenith said. "But I can tell you this with absolute certainty – there are many plants and waters in our rich forest that can certainly do the job. Mayhap someone had harvested a foodstuff they are unfamiliar with, and fed it by accident to the entire group..." Even she, with her kindly heart, sounded skeptical.

Silon shook his head. "This was no accident, in my eye. There was deliberation and caring here, Rossenith. All the sleeping people are cared for – the young ones tucked into their beds, everyone laid out neatly either in the elevated _telain _or in homes with closed doors to keep away from wild beasts, their positions arranged so as not to obscure breathing... Whoever did this did so intentionally, but did not want harm upon the community. They even cared for the horses. The stables are emptied and the beasts released to the paddocks so they have mobility while unattended. There is food and water accessible."

"But who would do this?" murmured Renior.

Legolas shook his head in dismay and said nothing, but his intelligent gaze had taken on an abstract, thoughtful look. He had the beginnings of an answer of what was going on perhaps, but one he was not ready to divulge.

"I will need to examine all the ailing as quickly as possible," Rossenith said anxiously.

"Not yet," Tauriel countered. "Silon - in your scouting, did you see any secure and defensible area where the non-combatants can stay while we make further explorations?"

"The emptied stables should satisfy that requirement," he answered.

"Silon, Renior," said Tauriel, "Take the noncombatants there and then leave them to secure the surrounding ground area." To the healer Rossenith and the gamekeeper Garavon and his apprentices she said, "Arm yourselves and stay at the stables until we come for you. We do not expect an attack, but you have to be able to defend yourselves in some fashion if one should occur. Remember - you have weapons and you have some training. You will know what to do if you had to. Rossenith, I know you want to examine our people but you cannot help them if you are harmed. Security will take precedence – they've been on their own this long, a few moments more won't matter. Once the outpost is safe, we will give you the time and resources you require to do your job."

The pretty healer looked nervous but determined. She nodded despite her fears, and Tauriel gave her a grim but approving smile.

Tauriel next turned to Legolas, Glorfindel and Glorfindel's loyal Istor. "You three belong with me. We will see if the _telain_ above can provide us some answers."

**# # #**

The outpost was eerily quiet, save for the occasional thunder of horse hooves and neighing coming from the paddocks.

It seemed that whatever had happened there happened recently enough, though. Things did not look neglected; the homes and gardens were well-tended, there were even loaves of bread that weren't stale.

Tauriel, Legolas, Glorfindel and Istor climbed cautiously up to one of the flets – the soldiers' shared living quarters, with beds occupied by sleeping wood-elves. Though assured by Silon that the occupants of the outpost that he had seen were alive, by instinct they still checked at pulse points and breathing, before moving to another flet. They were connected by narrow bridges and a quick and easy walk.

This _talan_ belonged to the outposts' commanding officer – he had a sleeping space to himself, along with a simple dining area and a well-used working desk strewn with papers anchored by a tankard of an unknown drink. The officer was asleep on his bed too, like the other soldiers.

"Let's try to rouse him," Tauriel said, which Glorfindel and Istor set to, promptly. When shaking and calling out did not work, Glorfindel closed his eyes and attempted to connect to him by soul and song. He shook his head at failure.

"He wanders meandering paths," he said in dismay. "Deep, dark and labyrinthine."

Istor sprinkled the officer's face with cold water, and Tauriel stepped forward with a smelling salt from her soldier's pack. The officer stirred minutely, but did not wake.

Legolas, Glorfindel noted, did not participate in these futile efforts. He had drifted to the fallen officer's desk, and was rifling through the papers there.

"Was anything of value kept at this outpost?" Glorfindel asked. "Something someone may have wanted to take without harming your people?"

"Our people hold no such valuables now," Tauriel said, somewhat cryptically. Glorfindel raised an eyebrow at that.

"If you mean jewels and baubles and similar such things," she expounded. "They make people quite mad, I understand. _Aran-nin_ has only ever loved a few, but once lost, does not bother much with them anymore. They are vanity and vulnerability. If you notice, even his crowns come from our trees."

"We live only as the gods originally intended," Legolas murmured distractedly. "For all the good it's done us, with everyone else all about making machines and rings and digging up the earth stirring up dragons... ah." He found what he was apparently looking for. He drew out a sheet of paper to show the others.

"What's that?" Istor asked.

"A register of soldiers and noncombatants assigned to and/or residing at this location," replied the prince. He presided his lips together grimly before continuing. "This is where we sent Rochanar's sons and his wife. The sons are two soldiers and the noncombatant youngest, who served in the gardens and the kitchens." He picked up the tankard on the desk and sniffed its contents carefully.

Tauriel's eyes widened, first to grasp what he was suggesting.

"We need to take account of everyone who is supposed to be here," she said urgently, "and determine if anyone is missing."

She grabbed the register and started going through the list and comparing it with the soldiers in the vicinity.

"Stay here," Legolas said to Glorfindel, "Neither of you can help in this matter – you do not know the people we aim to identify. Try to waken the commanding officer again. His name is Echador. He has no wife and no children, but he adores music and dotes on his hummingbirds."

Glorfindel smiled at him slightly, warmed by the other's trust in his ability to connect with others, but also endeared by Legolas' intimate knowledge of his people.

"I will try," he said. "But I cannot promise you anything."

Legolas was satisfied nonetheless, and left him and Istor to the task with a nod.

"What could have happened here?" Istor asked Glorfindel quietly, the moment they were all alone.

"There is a possibility that the fallen Rochanar's sons took it upon themselves to come after their father," Glorfindel deduced. "Knowing they were being watched and likely would have been stopped by their peers, they put the whole place to sleep and then escaped."

"But escaped to what?" Istor asked. "To bloody Dol Guldur in the benighted south?"

Glorfindel winced. "Love makes fools of all – and unchecked grief can make one quite mad. We know this firsthand, from events that have occurred in our own House."

Istor winced. The shadow of Celebrian loomed large over anyone from Imladris. When Lord Elrond's lovely wife was rescued from the hands of the orc, her mind and heart were left imprisoned. They never truly got her back. The consequences of her torture centuries ago were ones they all still lived with now – in the loneliness of their House lord, and the constant absence of Celebrian's twin sons who were perennially engaged in hunts. Bloodshed of their enemies have become, beyond revenge, the salve to their torments for their lost mother.

"What would Elrohir and Elladan have done, if we tried to stop them?" Glorfindel asked.

"What've they already done you mean," Istor conceded begrudgingly. Elrond's twins have escaped kindly intervention many a time, to mixed results. "Still – they probably wouldn't have poisoned a whole village. Probably."

"Maybe Legolas' theory is wrong," said Glorfindel. "We will find out soon enough."

"What do you think?"

Glorfindel gave no voice to it. He just shook his head in sadness, and tried to at least do what was asked of him by Legolas.

**# # #**

Silon was wrong about two things.

First, not everyone was asleep. One person in the entirety of the northernmost outpost was awake.

"_Ernil-nin!_" she exclaimed from one of the _telain_, so loudly and desperately that Glorfindel heard it from the commanding officer's flet. "_Ernil-nin_, thank the gods you are here!"

Glorfindel and Istor looked at each other briefly, before they started running. They did not go far, following the way Legolas left earlier. The exclamation had come from a neighboring flet, connected to the officer's by a narrow, natural bridge of vines and branches.

Following it, the two Imladris warriors emerged at the entrance to a _talan_ with an unparalleled view of the Grey Mountains. This was the lookout itself, the literal point of the northernmost point of Thranduil's Woodland kingdom, from where wood-elf soldiers perched and watched in vigilant guard of their home from northern threats.

But they found no soldiers there, at that moment. They only found a frail-looking, distraught _elleth_, bowed on her hands and knees at Legolas' feet, weeping. Beside him, Tauriel stood with her knives out, ready to defend her prince if the slight woman presented a threat. Her jaws clenched in displeasure when instead of stepping away, Legolas crouched before the woman and put his hands on her shoulders. The posture opened his chest for an attack, but instead of taking advantage of Legolas' vulnerability, the woman lifted her head up to her prince and focused on what she needed to say.

"I did not know what else to do," she said. "Everyone was asleep when I woke. I think they gave me a smaller dose of that foul potion, fearing for my health. I did not know what to do, _hir-nin_, I did not know what to do. I would have gone for help but I did not think the outpost should be left unwatched."

Beyond her, Glorfindel could see traces of her attempts at keeping a lone watch. She had a bow and two full quivers of arrows. She had a bucket of rocks for dropping and tossing to any enemies who might come below. She had a water skin and some lembas, and a small packet of leaves that Glorfindel suspected to be some form of stimulant, based on her wide-eyed shaking. She even had a chamber pot on hand. This slight _elleth_ had tried her best to be the outpost's lone watchman.

"Who gave you that foul potion, Agarwen?" Legolas asked tightly, and In his voice Glorfindel knew he already knew the answer.

"My sons," she said brokenly, beginning to weep in earnest again. "My sons, _hir-nin_. They served it to everyone."

This was the lost soldier Rochanar's wife, and their devastating suspicions were proven true.

**# # #**

The second thing Silon was wrong about, was that not everyone was alive.

Whatever means the sons of Rochanar had spread their sleeping draught around – sweets for the children perhaps, or ale for the soldiers, or food for the rest – someone had partaken of more than their share, and consequently slept too deeply for it, drifting into death.

The soldier was long gone by the time Rossenith got to him, cold and stiff.

Rochanar's sons had unintentionally caused – murder.

**# # #**

_"__Who are you, beyond being your father's son?"_

Glorfindel remembered asking it of the youngest Rochanarion weeks ago, when the _ellon_ approached him with questions about death and sacrifice after his father was taken alive by orcs.

_"__I am nobody."_

It was a conversation that had terrified Glorfindel, for he felt how much the young elf seemed to be drowning in a desperate, impotent anger.

_"__What would you do for those you love?" _Rochanarion asked him questions right back. _"Was death a salvation?"_

But all of Glorfindel's answers were found wanting, and now here they all were. Reaping the poison fruits of Rochanar's sons' desperation.

_"__I cannot bear it my lord, the thought of him in the clutches of our enemies. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, I cannot think of anything else."_

**# # #**

"You need to come after them, my lord."

As Rochanar's wife, and now the mother to three grief-mad fugitives who had committed unintentional murder on top of treasonous actions that left their kingdom vulnerable to attack – it was Agarwen who was left with all the burdens of their familial desperation.

A burden she was now passing onto her prince.

Silon had joined them at the lookout as they considered their options. In the grounds below, Rossenith was given the assistance of Garavon and his apprentices and the protection of Renior while she tended the sleeping elves.

"He needs to do nothing of the sort," Silon snapped. "Your foolish sons, in their imaginary noble cause, has killed a soldier and left our northern territory hideously exposed. That we were not attacked with the outpost quietly fallen was but a stroke of luck and you know it. If it is to Dol Guldur they are headed, no one need follow and their doom is all their own making."

As certain as he sounded though, he still looked to Legolas for the final call. Even Tauriel, who technically had command of their traveling party, did so. She understood that she was their tactical leader, but this was something else entirely. This was a decision of justice, something a prince worth his birthright would not forego.

Legolas did not shy from it.

"All elves bound for Dol Guldur," he said sternly, "Whether they are irredeemably taken by force as Rochanar was, or unstoppably go by their own will as his sons are doing, are considered lost. When the only outcome is death, the only appropriate option is less death-"

Agarwen wailed cutting him off, and wept. "But my lord... My lord...! They are ill, you see? Ill in the mind and in the heart. As surely bodies can break, so can minds, couldn't they? And as surely as you would not leave an injured soldier to perish on the ground – you would not leave my sons to fates they chose without their proper faculties, would you? You wouldn't penalize a maimed soldier for not walking, why would you blame my broken sons for not thinking –"

"I am not finished," Legolas snapped for he was angry too, and had just cause to be. Silon, who had looked relieved when it first seemed as if Legolas was willing to stand down, stiffened. Glorfindel found his whole body becoming cold and tight too.

He was always a champion for attempting rescues, but why did he feel as if a weight was lifted when it initially seemed like Legolas was going to leave the foolish sons of Rochanar to their own devices? And why did a paralyzing dread land on him now that it seemed Legolas was going to come after them?

"I said – unstoppably," Legolas said. "If your sons can still be stopped, they will be. They _have_ to be stopped from destroying themselves not only for their own good, but so that they can be made accountable for their crimes. They need to face justice before the king, and justice before the family of the soldier whose life they ended."

Silon exhaled a heavy sigh in disappointment. Tauriel inhaled in anticipation of the work they now had to do. They were strange bookends to Legolas' affections... while Glorfindel just held his breath waiting for what all of this might mean for all of them.

**TO BE CONTONUED...**

_Thanks for reading and 'til the next post!_


	15. Trails and Trials

_**hello everyone**__!_

_Thank you so much for all who are still with me on this. Thank you to readers and followers, and especially to kind reviewers. Your encouragements and insights are absolutely precious to me. Precioussssss, lol. Anyways, I am currently writing some really tricky scenes at the moment, so I've been productive but some of you might not be too happy with me at the end of this fic so... let's move forward and see where this goes ;) Do share your c&c's and thoughts, especially as we move into thematically tougher territory. All of this sounds vague, I know. I'm sorry. Caffeine. Hopefully the fic is more coherent, hahaha... anyways, thanm you again and I hope you enjoy the read as much as I enjoy the writing. And wuthiut further ado:_

# # #

**15: Trails and Trials**

# # #

_Mirkwood, T.A. 2851_

# # #

The group drifted to the outpost officer's _talan_ to consult his notes and maps. They estimated that the brothers left for Dol Guldur less than a day ago.

Agarwen could not tell how much time had passed because she had been put to sleep like all the other elves, but there were other means of coming up with a reasonable time estimate. They relied upon information from the sleeping commanding officer's last dated logs, which aligned with when Legolas' traveling party started feeling the confusion of the trees.

"They left less than a day ago," Tauriel said under her breath, excitedly. "The brothers could not have gone far. The older ones are soldiers well-known to me. They are heavyset spearmen, not quite as limber in the trees, and traveling with their noncombatant younger brother besides."

The group drew out a map of their home, and Silon pointed at their current position at its northernmost. "The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, and Rochanar's sons can be blunt," he glanced uncertainly at their weeping but mother before continuing, "They are likely to take this route going south to Dol Guldur. But this is still a long journey, more so with obstacles. The brothers will be slowed down by needing to cross the river, by occasional spiders' nests, by the increasingly tangled foliage the closer they get to the South, and they may even be intercepted by our own roving patrols or need to hide from them. Catching up to those damned fools really is possible, if all they have is a day's lead."

Tauriel nodded in approval. "A lean outfit traveling quickly in the trees can catch up to them easily."

"Not all of us can go," Legolas said thoughtfully. By Tauriel's pointed look at her commander and prince, she already knew where his mind was going.

"The people of this outpost will need the care of Rossenith, and _she_ will need help," she said authoritatively. "Garavon and his apprentices will stay for that. My lords Legolas and Glorfindel, still uncleared for military duties as you are, you will also stay along with Istor, who is not adept in the trees and who I assume would wish to stay with his commander. The outpost needs to be manned, and while its soldiers are out of commission, that will be your duty."

"I am fastest in the trees," Legolas murmured carefully, not wanting to blatantly challenge her, _yet_.

"Not by much over me," she snapped. "And given our prey's pace, speed is not the primary purpose. We _will_ catch up to them and when we do, they may resist."

"They would never hurt _ernil-nin_!" the mother claimed, and was duly ignored.

"I will speak with the voice of the prince's own father the king if I must," Tuariel told Legolas fervently, "But for now I call upon whatever trust you may have of my judgment and abilities, Legolas. I ask only as myself, for Tauriel, that you stand down. I will go, and you will have to stay."

Legolas' jaws clenched and his eyes narrowed in annoyance at being backed into the corner with the weight of his respect for her abilities, but he gave her a short nod. "Bring Renior and Silon, and commandeer soldiers from the first forest patrol you encounter and recruit them to your task."

"Silon will stay with you," Tauriel said, raising her eyebrows at him in challenge.

"I think not," he returned, as expected.

"This is an outpost supposedly watched by at least twenty soldiers, Legolas," Tauriel reasoned. "Do you think you and Glorfindel and Istor will be enough if the worst should come to pass now, in our moment of vulnerability? Silon stays – and even that is too few. I will have Renior with me, and when we connect with a patrol – a given owing to our southbound route – I will have more than enough able soldiers. Certainly more than what you have here."

Legolas stared at her for a long moment. He cared for her beyond soldierly camaraderie, that was always clear, and he never could get used to being on the sidelines. But he had no rational basis for further complaint, and they were pressed for time.

"Take no unnecessary risks," he told her tersely. "If the brothers are lethally adamant in their fool's errand," their mother winced but he did not care, "let them be and do not hurt yourselves in subduing them. If they have gone farther than our estimates and have reached beyond our secured zones, do not pursue. Do not go beyond the southern outpost - you are expressly forbidden. Do not risk yourselves unnecessarily for this, Tauriel. Your word."

"It is given _hir-nin_," she promised.

"Prepare for your mission then," he said. "I will compose a missive to be sent to the stronghold about the situation, and I suppose we will just have to see how Garavon's birds perform in their duties in a test of fire."

**# # #**

There wasn't much to prepare.

Legolas took over the outpost commanding officer's desk to write quick messages to his father the Elvenking and Brenion the War Minister for the birds to bring. As untested as the messenger birds were, Legolas did the letters in coded them in their archaic, little-known Silvan dialect. Nearby, Tauriel prepared her wares. She checked her weapons and re-stocked provisions.

Silon had gone off to give Renior and the others their assignments, bringing Rochanar's wife down with him for examination by the healer Rossenith. Their departure left the two wood-elves alone with the Imladrians, the latter engaged over the bedridden, unconscious outpost commander Echador. They resumed in efforts to solicit some form of response from him. He remained asleep, even with Glorfindel's gentle coaxing of the _fea_.

Legolas finished with his letters and rose from the desk to stand beside Tauriel.

"It is a long journey, Tauriel," he told her quietly. "Do you have enough-"

She chuckled at him. "Weapons, water, lembas. My soldier's pack is so well-provisioned I even have some of Rossenith's non-regulation items. We have few needs the forest cannot provide at need, Legolas. You are just worried."

"It is a complex situation."

"The hard part was the decision you made to come after the brothers," she told him gently. "Having done that, the soldierly objectives you must now leave to others until you yourself are fit for duty." She hesitated before adding, "I thank you for doing just that."

Glorfindel understood her gratitude; she knew she was the outfit's designated commanding officer for tactical matters, but Legolas was still her military superior and her prince. He could have had some ground to challenge her but had been reasonable instead.

It was another delicate game that Legolas had to play, Glorfindel reflected. He juggled his princely and soldierly duties, his current medical limitations, and the respect, friendship and romantic interest he had for Tauriel.

What had he said to Glorfindel just a day or so ago?

_I refuse to put myself in the untenable position of either sidelining a fine soldier at risk to the kingdom to spare my heart, or possibly assigning them to their deaths. I might lose my mind_...

Glorfindel left them to it. He was unfamiliar with jealousy so if he felt it over Legolas and whatever it was the prince had with Tauriel - he did not know. He did not think so.

"We will be careful, Legolas," she promised him. To take the serious edge off of their conversation she added wryly, "I am more worried about you."

"In a relatively secure outpost with Silon sitting on me?" Legolas laughed – a light, quiet, warm, intimate, unaffected sound. Glorfindel felt a twinge in his heart at hearing it coaxed out by someone else, and the realization he had no monopoly on giving Legolas joy.

_Ah jealousy_, he realized, _there you are. We do not know each other yet. I am Glorfindel. I wish I could say it is good to met you_.

**# # #**

Tauriel and Renior left with little fuss, and Istor took first watch at the lookout. The sleeping Echador, Glorfindel left to the ministrations of Rossenith, while he went with Legolas in search of Garavon and his messenger birds.

They went down from the trees; Legolas again, adopting the space below Glorfindel as shield in case of a hard fall. Glorfindel had no need of it anymore, for he had always been a quick study. But it was _interesting_, this sensation of being so looked after. Of being so precious to someone. He realized then, the magnitude of his relief that it wouldn't be Legolas going southbound on a mission to apprehend Rochanar's desperate sons.

They landed soundlessly on the ground, and walked mostly apace with each other with Legolas steering them in his subtle way toward the stables and the paddocks.

"You did the right thing, I think," Glorfindel opined.

Legolas gave him a sidelong glance. "Why do you say so?"

"The objective is achievable," Glorfindel answered, "and the parameters clear and fair: save the brothers from themselves while arresting them for their transgressions to see justice before the Elvenking, but at no risk to the arresting soldiers' welfare. The decision is good politically and militarily. It is also I think, good for the soul."

Legolas winced. "I could hardly say 'to hell with them all' with their mother weeping at my feet. Tempting as it was with all that folly."

"I doubt you even thought about that," Glorfindel contested.

Legolas shrugged, did not deny it.

"Do you think the brothers will resist?" Glorfindel asked.

"They have gone too far to stop now," Legolas replied tightly. "I know they will, but they will not harm our people badly with intention." His lip turned up in a dry smile. "Not that they have _the ability_ to harm Tauriel or Renior. The brothers will be subdued, of that I am certain. Their submission is the least of my worries, however – as you know, navigating the woods in that direction is dangerous enough, without worrying about your own people hurting you."

They stopped at the paddocks, where Silon was unsuccessfully and frustratingly trying to coral several horses back to their stables for the night. It was a surprisingly poor showing, for one of the Firstborn.

Legolas stopped to watch, and Glorfindel settled beside him. The corners of the elven prince's eyes crinkled warmly.

"He has other strengths," the prince said fondly.

Jealousy teased at Glorfindel again, but it was only a gentle, passing breeze. _You are not the only one who can bring him joy_, he thought, _But I can be happy, as long as he has joy._

Nearby, Garavon guffawed freely. He was a lover of animals, and Silon's beastly troubles amused him.

"Perhaps you can help instead!" Silon exclaimed. But as Legolas walked up to the gamekeeper with his messages, Silon and Garavon saw the papers in his hands and sobered immediately.

"These are bound for the Elvenking's Halls," Legolas told Garavon, "To apprise them of our situation. Do you think your birds are up for the challenge?"

Garavon's eyes turned steely, not unlike that of a bird of prey. "These will be delivered safely, _hir-nin_. I know it."

**# # #**

Legolas and Glorfindel watched Garavon with his work, cooing at the birds while securing the messages upon their legs.

The expectation was that once the messages reached the stronghold, reinforcements would be sent to secure the north post, and patrols would be sent southward to help save/arrest the fugitive brothers. Things would be infinitely simpler if the birds could be sent directly to the southern outpost so that they could intercept Rochanar's sons; alas, they were only trained to return home to Garavon's hut near Thranduil's Halls. If this worked though, they could expand upon the system.

The two golden elves stood only to observe; Garavon had his two apprentices and needed nothing from them. Once the task was done and the birds went soaring to the skies bearing their missives – and their hopes – it was time to focus on their tasks here, which meant bringing the outpost to proper order.

Beginning with ushering the spirited horses into shelter.

"Don't even think about it!" a frustrated Silon told Legolas, who vaunted up the fencing to assist. "I'm not going to allow these mad beasts to kick at you and trample your brittle bones."

Legolas' eyes glinted in annoyance and challenge. Glorfindel sighed, and vaunted over to follow after him.

The horses were restless. They were sensitive creatures, and were not immune to the energies spurred by the strange occurrences in their home these past days. Suddenly there were strangers trying to control them; of course they would buck.

Legolas eyed one red roan-haired horse and approached him seemingly casually; but Glorfindel knew the relaxed posture was fully intentional, so that the horse would not feel threatened. They circled each other repeatedly, and this went on for many long moments, their distance gradually narrowing until the horse could sniff and nudge at Legolas gently. Deeming the elf as safe, the horse then lowered its head, and let his face and nose be touched. Legolas moved slowly and deliberately, petting the horse now, which soon seemed determined to stay nuzzling near his shoulder.

_I can sympathize with that_, Glorfindel thought wryly.

Garavon looked on with approval, and Glorfindel's eyes caught Silon's. The other elf rolled back his eyes in annoyance, but could not hold back an endeared smile for the prince he again had cause to admire.

Glorfindel sighed. He missed his own horse, left in Imladris when their party had set off on foot, knowing the beast would not be ideal to ride in the thick forests of Mirkwood. A blessing that decision had been too, for surely the beasts would have been lost in the attack that felled their traveling party.

He looked over at the small cluster of powerful horses in a coral, and wondered if Legolas meant to dance with them all until he could subdue them. Luckily, he had tricks all his own.

One did not spend time with the gods without learning a few things, and Yavanna in particular had always been generous with knowledge. Glorfindel whistled an ethereal tune, which had the nearest horse immediately running, eager to rest his head beneath Glorfindel's palm.

"You are a show off!" Legolas teased him from afar, with a light laugh that carried in the wind from where he stood to where Glorfindel had secreted away his deepest heart. It shot straight to the very core of him.

_He really is one hell of a marksman_, Glorfindel thought, tremulously wryly, for he had a sudden fear for this brittle core, undiscovered until now. It was an unmapped part of his person, this capacity for such loving, unearthed only by the barest power of light laughter.

**# # #**

They returned the horses back to the stables and checked on each of the mighty beasts – they were still in some distress, but at least they were now sheltered, warm and well-nourished.

"These are all unbroken," Legolas murmured, looking over the collection of spirited animals. Some he had ushered in and inspected, others were catered to by Glorfindel.

"I agree," said Silon readily for it was as good an excuse as any for his un-elvish lack of finesse with them. The quip made Legolas smile grimly; Glorfindel suspected it made little difference. But the elven prince would not be distracted from a thought that was capturing his mind.

"What are you thinking, Legolas?" asked Glorfindel.

Before the other elf could reply, one of Garavon's apprentices came running toward them.

"_Hir-nin_!" he called out excitedly. "The outpost commander, Lieutenant Echador - he is awake!"

**# # #**

It was, in too many ways, not a good awakening.

The outpost commander was badly ill and embracing a sick bowl. But as poorly as he felt, even worse was the situation he had awoken to. It was, however, a situation he was still valiantly trying to address while sporadically being interrupted by his wildly rebelling stomach.

Echador had staggered his way stubbornly to his desk, and that was where Legolas, Glorfindel and Silon found him by the time they raced up to his flet from the grounds below. At his elbow hovered gentle and nervous Rossenith, who for all of her prowess with healing and herbs, did not have a liking for commanding others. She was wringing her wrists anxiously, and looked relieved at the arrival of the others.

"Talk some sense into him if you can, Legolas!" she opened. "The lieutenant should be in bed!"

"Ah, Rossenith," Legolas sighed wearily. "No one is where they are supposed to be at the moment, unfortunately. In the meantime, I need Echador to be functional."

"_Ernil-nin_," Echador said, his voice thin and trembling. He lowered his head to bow, then just kept going lower until he was hovering over the sick bowl, which he used promptly.

Legolas grimaced in sympathy. "I will speak of what we already know, and you are to supplement vital or new information. A full debrief can wait until you are in better health."

"Thank you, my lord," he said thinly. He was green at the gills.

"We arrived to find your outpost completely incapacitated," Legolas summarized. "This was apparently caused by a powerful sleeping draught administered to everyone here – soldiers and civilians alike, including the children. The culprits, we believe, are the three sons of the captured soldier Rochanar. Knowing they were being watched, knowing they would be stopped, the brothers put the entire outpost into a deep sleep, then headed south to Dol Guldur on a mission to save whatever they could of their father."

"The youngest was put to work in the gardens and the kitchens," Echador a with a gulp and a soft burp. He wrapped his arms about his middle miserably. "He would have the means and opportunity to go with such a motivation. The older ones have also been... frayed at the edges. They all seemed to be getting better though, more productive, more engaged these days past. I didn't think they were planning anything elaborate, I thought they were healing. We were even heartened by the service of meal and drink they had so earnestly shared with us. I didn't think, none of us would have ever thought, it would be laced by a draught."

"The powerful drink they administered resulted in the death of one of your soldiers," Legolas told him gravely. "I am sorry."

Echador paled further. "My lord... who was it?"

"As commanding officer here, you will need to formally identify the soldier yourself before we give him a proper burial," Legolas said tightly. "But it is young Mistador. I recognize him from when he had some archery training with me a long time ago. I am sorry for your loss."

Echador closed his eyes in a new brand of misery. "I should have kept those brothers on a better watch, _ernil-nin_. This is all the cause of my complacency and failure."

"You have command responsibility yes," Legolas conceded, "but their choices are also all their own. If there was some negligence here, it will be found out and dealt with, but I find I can hardly blame you more than I can blame myself. Now is not the time for such things at any rate. We need this outpost restored to its proper defensive function. We need to bring your troops back to health. And we need the brothers retrieved for their own sakes and to face justice. We have dispatched a small party for the latter. The others we here have to accomplish on our own."

Echador nodded, and he tried to straighten up but promptly failed. "Rossenith please," he groaned, and seemed to return to a conversation he was having with the healer before Legolas and the others arrived to debrief him.

"One sip," he begged her, "one sip of that potion of yours. I need to be on my feet, just for a little while."

Glorfindel realized he was asking for the much touted, magical brew of Rossenith's that could stimulate "_the half dead as if twice alive_," as Legolas had once described it.

"I do not know what you were given," Rossenith said sternly. "The reaction could be lethal. The effect you seek will also burn through quickly, and in the end you may feel worse than you do now. There is nothing you can do to persuade me."

Echador sighed, but he relented. With sweat beading at his brow he managed to finally straighten up, but he did not let go of his sick bowl, just in case.

"Let's get this place in proper order," he muttered, looking through the papers at his desk. "I will release you to turn your attentions to your other patients, healer, I am sorted enough. But first I must compare our records with how many you are tending here, and we can determine if everyone is accounted for."

Glorfindel let them work, and turned his attention to Legolas, who was pensive again. Something the lieutenant had said made the prince's brows furrow, and he looked lost in thought again, as he had been just before they ran here upon word of Echador's awakening. Glorfindel did not interrupt him, but instead, tried to fathom the course of his thoughts.

What had Echador said? _Compare our records with how many... account for everyone... how many... account..._

"All the horses are wild," Legolas murmured, and he blinked and licked his lips in emerging realization. "All the horses – Echador!"

"M-my lord?"

"This outpost," Legolas said tightly, "You maintain warhorses both wild and broken, do you not?"

"Y-yes of course..."

Legolas hissed out a curse, and headed for one of the maps of his home. Glorfidel felt his hands grow cold at an emerging realization of his own. Legolas spread out the map.

"All this time we assumed Rochanar's sons would be on foot," Legolas said, "and take the shortest route from here to Dol Guldur through the forest. But if they took the tamed horses..."

Glorfindel looked over the map. The outpost they were in was at the northern, wooded tip of Mirkwood, facing the mountains. If the brothers took horses, they wouldn't go through the forest – where the foliage was unfriendly to large beasts and they would only be intercepted by patrols of their own people – they would go _around it_.

From the north they would go west, out of the bounds of the woods. They would then go southbound down the hills and plains, and likely re-enter the woods once they are closer to Dol Guldur, where the Mirkwood patrols were either far less in the contested territory and likely to miss them, or nonexistent altogether in lost lands.

Tauriel and Renior, therefore, were on a fool's errand. The traveling party's most able warriors were following a mistaken assumption. The brothers were taking a different route.

Legolas closed his eyes in frustration. Their assumptions were wrong, and it was a collective failure based on incomplete information, but it was the only information they had at the time. As a soldier, Glorfindel was not unfamiliar with this brand of blameless mistake. They couldn't have known better or done anything else. But even blameless, the outcome was grave, and he could almost see it physically borne on Legolas' shoulders, lean and powerful but now slightly bent as he considered his options. But when he opened his eyes, they were steely with strength and resolve, and he stood taller and loomed larger even if only because of them.

"The situation is the same," Legolas said quietly, but lethally. "Their lead is still short. Their horsemanship inferior to ours. They can still be intercepted if we take the remaining horses here and come after them. The wild ones will have the necessary power, speed, and quite frankly, abandon, to do the job."

"If you can control them!" snapped Silon. "They'd just as soon break our necks!"

"Not _my _neck," Legolas said assuredly. "Someone needs to go after them, Silon."

"No one need do anything for that damned, fool lot!" Silon thundered. "Especially not you!"

"It was my absence from the field that caused this to begin with," Legolas said quietly, which in turn, quieted Silon.

"Surely you must know that is not true," Silon said to his prince. "Surely, Legolas. Surely you must know. You cannot think it..."

Legolas shook his head at himself, clearly regretting what he had said, but indulging in it only briefly.

"Now is not the time for such things," he murmured.

It was the same thing he had just told Echador, about self-blame. His gaze took on more calculation and planning, quickly overriding his disappointment in himself.

"Eryn Galen is two hundred leagues north to south," he said quietly.

Glorfindel picked up on his train of thought: "With trained horses traveling at managed speeds sustainable for long-distance riding, fresh horses to occasionally switch, and strategic stops for the beasts to rest, a seasoned horseman can traverse that distance in less than 4 days."

"They are not good h-horsemen," Echador piped in. "I kn-know this to be true: their training is minimal, and experience in long-d-distance riding assuredly none. They have never b-been assigned thus."

"Novice riders restless on a mission might not know better than riding those horses to the ground," Legolas said. "They are only a day's ride ahead of us and could not have covered much distance. But still if we mean to succeed we need to leave promptly."

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

Thank you and 'Til the next post!


	16. Brutal Complements

_**Hello everyone!**_

_Thank you to all who are still with me on this, especially the kind reviewers. You guys are a treasure, now more than ever, when the fandom is quieter. There's so much going on in my life right now, I thought I might as well move forward with writing and posting this, which is one of the funnest and easiest of the million or so things I need to do lately, so here we are :) When this is finished (and I am only a handful of chapters shy of that), I might be gone again for a brief time, hopefully not too long :) But rest assured, I am committed to finishing this particular tale and am actually almost there :) At any rate, I hope you enjoy the read aw much as I enjoy the writing! Please keep the c&c's coming if you can. And without further ado:_

# # #

**16: Brutal Complements**

# # #

_Mirkwood, T.A. 2851_

# # #

Like Echador, the other soldiers of the northern outpost were all stirring awake. It deprived Silon of his last case of discouraging Legolas from pursuing the three fugitives: that they needed to stay back and be on the watch.

The elven soldiers were as ill as Echador had been upon waking, which meant that while they were well enough to maintain a lookout on the reasonably secure post, they were not fit for a pursuit on horseback.

Legolas was going to have to go and with him, Glorfindel, as both were able to handle the untamed horses. Istor expressed his duty and desire to join his Imladrian commander, and so he and Glorfindel headed to the stables to see if Istor could work with the wild beasts. Legolas and Silon they left in the commander's _talan_ – Legolas making plans with Echador while valiantly trying to ignore Silon as the latter continued to reason with him.

It reminded Glorfindel of how he first met the pair. Legolas had an arrow on his back and was barking out commands, with Silon trailing after him begging him to have it tended. It was apparently an old dance; Glorfindel left them to it. He had his own tumultuous thoughts, and his own tasks ahead.

"Maybe you and Legolas shouldn't go," Istor commented discreetly, as they walked.

Glorfindel'a brow quirked. "Maybe. But the task should be done, and no one else can do it. As Legolas said himself – 'no one is supposed to be where they are at the moment.'"

Istor grunted in displeased agreement. "You are well enough I suppose, my lord. I know you. And I think I've even seen you fight in worse states than this."

"So what drives your doubts?"

"Maybe fools should be left to their folly," said Istor, "Maybe I lost some of my nerve lately, seeing you with your blood and innards splayed on the ground. If a horse will have me and I accompany the prince, would you consider staying back?"

It was unthinkable, Glorfindel knew right away. But he gave it earnest consideration, out of fairness. He imagined Legolas and Istor riding away without him, and even now his gut churned in fear of what he could lose if something ill befell them. It hurt his heart.

_Love and fear_, he thought, _brutal complements_...

He shook his head, unable to word it.

They walked on.

**# # #**

At the stables, Glorfindel hummed for the horses Yavanna's mesmerizing tune, and ushered Istor to the most responsive of them. Guiding his loyal second's hands to touch the beast at the nose, Glorfindel introduced them, and let them connect through him.

He was in a trance-like state, and startled at a commanding sudden arrival: Silon.

"Can you not talk some sense into him?" the Mirkwood soldier demanded. They both knew who the _him _was.

Glorfindel sighed, and released his connection to the horse and Istor gently. They had already established some rapport though, and Istor gave Glorfindel a reassuring nod.

"I think I have it in good order now, my lord."

Glorfindel turned his attention toward Silon, and walked to the seething elf. He led them out the stables so as not to disturb Istor's efforts at bonding with his perspective horse.

"How could it possibly be allowed that two elves on the convalescent list, are the ones to go on the backs of wild gods-be-damned warhorses, in pursuit of three mad elves over unsecured territory, bound for Dol Guldur? Where is the sense in all of this?"

"I should not defend your prince to you," Glorfindel said evenly. "That is not my place. But I can tell you some facts you cannot dispute."

"Good gods," Silon scoffed.

"The decision to come after the brothers is difficult to accept but fair," Glorfindel replied. "It is just for those they wronged, that they be pursued and held accountable for their crimes. Think of explaining to Mistador's _adar_ and _naneth_, if you let his killers run free."

"Mistador's parents are long dead," Silon spat out, bitterly.

Glorfindel wisely moved on. "The decision is also merciful – merciful to Agarwen, who would otherwise lose her husband and all of her sons. A most unfair burden that would be, undeserved. It is also merciful to the brothers themselves, who are in deep grief and not in their proper faculties. And so our course of action is both just and merciful – a decision worthy of a prince.

"Second," Glorfindel continued, "tactically speaking, the objective is feasible. Go on horses and catch up to them, and subdue and capture if possible. They are inferior horsemen and inferior fighters on a small lead. The parameters are fair too – do not pursue into enemy lands. Do not risk injury or death. If the brothers are unsalvageable, we have at least done what was within reason to do. Actionable, achievable, and well-defined – a plan worthy of a good commander.

"Third," and with this Glorfindel could not help but sigh. "We are severely undermanned. Legolas is convalescent but he knows the terrain, he can control a wild horse, and you know better than anyone that he will be functional if he needs to fight. That he should go because he has a duty and the only one able to fulfill it – well, that is admirable too."

"Foolish more like," Silon seethed, "and dead if he is allowed into messes such as these. You would put him and his condition on the back of a wild horse? So what if it is fast and powerful and they _like _him? One misstep and the rider is going to get tossed and break his neck. When you get to your goal, you worry about an altercation with the brothers and you are right to, but they are but one potential danger of many. Legolas plans to ride hard on lands not our own, where orcs from Gundabad have been known to roam and raid. Southbound you will be parallel to mountain lairs of goblins and trolls and the gods know what else too. Reaching the brothers and fighting them before they get to the confines of Dol Guldur, my lord, is the easy part! Tell me, tell me, Glorfindel. Tell me I am wrong. Tell me the danger he means to run headlong into does not terrify you."

"I will not lie," Glorfindel said. "Of course it terrifies me. But can either of us prove his decision is the wrong one, and can either of us point in the direction of anyone else who can do what needs doing? I know I am trying, and I am failing."

Glorfindel winced at the admission, for it was brutally true – no matter how right the decision, no matter how admirable the person's courage and sense of duty to fulfill it... he would keep Legolas safe if he could. But he also knew Legolas was loved because he was this way – and one cannot love him, and then unmake him into someone less. You cannot love him and clip his wings.

"Short of drugging him myself," Glorfindel said dryly, "All I can do is ride headlong into danger with him, and maybe make things better."

Silon was still deeply, deeply angry. But somehow, it turned into anger at himself. "I would kill to go, but none of those beasts are going to take me - not even I think, with your godly interventions."

"I am not a god," Glorfindel corrected him with a quirk of his brow.

"And horses still hate me," Silon said, before he hit upon a thought and he stared at Glorfindel hungrily. "If you let me ride with you, and thus let me ride with my prince to save his pretty head from his own reckless doings, I will owe you a life debt."

"Two riders to a horse will slow me down," Glorfindel pointed out. "This is why you won't ask Legolas, isn't it? He would never allow it because his goal is pursuit and interception."

"It won't slow _you _much," Silon argued. "I've seen you with the horses. We can keep within a few lengths of Legolas, and we can have one horse on a lead for when the one we are riding tires. Let me ride with you, my lord. Let me. Let me be at my prince's back."

Glorfindel considered. What Silon said was true; he could certainly prevail upon one of the wild horses to have two riders, and with a fresh horse on a lead they could switch at need and not lose much time. Legolas wouldn't have Silon along with him and Glorfindel did not want that either; two riders could increase the risk of an accident, which he did not wish Legolas to be exposed to in his healing state. As for Silon riding with Istor instead, the latter's bond with his horse was too tenuous to risk burdening the beast with one more stranger. If Silon was to go, he could only be with Glorfindel.

He narrowed his eyes in thought, and gave Silon a grave nod.

"If you have no duties here and your commander allows it," he told the younger elf, "You may ride with me."

**# # #**

Garavon was given another message to release to his birds, which Legolas watched while standing beside Glorfindel. They were both outfitted for their mission, and set to leave the moment the birds take to the air.

They both looked intently upon the gamekeeper's actions, but Legolas' posture beside him was stiff, and the air around him uneasy about something else. Glorfindel could tell he wanted to say something, and he suspected he knew what it was... it's just that they were too hard pressed for time to discuss it in private.

As Garavon and his apprentices prepared the birds and cooed encouragements at them, Legolas finally murmured at Glorfindel, "Would I be able to persuade you to stay here?"

Glorfindel could not help it, he gave out a soft snort. "That you of all people, should ask me this question..."

Legolas would not be steered away from the seriousness of his message. "To come after Rochanar's sons is my responsibility, not yours. To navigate this particular terrain is my expertise, not yours. Neither of us are back to optimal fitness and ideally we would both stay back, but I do not have that option. You, however, do."

"I do not have that option," Glorfindel murmured back.

"Why not?"

_You know why not_...

... _I do not have the desire or ability to leave you alone_.

"As surely as your dutiful heart binds you to this path," Glorfindel said carefully, "Mine is bound not only to you, but to doing the right thing. And I believe you are doing the right thing."

"I refuse to have you risk yourself on my behalf," Legolas retorted, "trying to solve my problems, sharing the burden of my responsibilities."

"Why not?" it was Glorfindel's turn to ask. "You do it for others readily enough. Why not, Legolas? You do not need it? That is arrogant. You do not deserve it? You are far more worthy of love and life and light than you know. So - why not?"

"If you get hurt I will hurt," came the embittered reply, for clearly Legolas knew now that he would not be able to shake off Glorfindel's company. "But if you get hurt_ because of me_... I wouldn't be able to bear it. Do you understand? I may need your help, I may even deserve it. But I do not _want _it."

"The generosity you are so willing to give," Glorfindel told him quietly, "you must also have the humility to accept. That is the burden of, of caring for someone. To love and let the self be loved in return."

"So far it is all burdens, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't disagree."

Legolas sighed heavily, but his lip quirked in a dry grin. "At least in this we are aligned."

Glorfindel took a deep breath, and he remembered they were not alone only when the birds took to the skies with the furious sound of a flurry of flapping wings. Garavon likely did not hear their conversation, though his younger, more grounded apprentices likely did. Legolas did not seem to care much.

"We leave now," Legolas declared.

He walked to his wild red horse, the one he had taken a liking to immediately. Glorfindel whistled for his own preferred steed, a mighty white warhorse with a broad back. Istor arrived at their party, already mounted. Silon took his seat behind Glorfindel after the ancient warlord settled atop his horse.

Legolas, who had approved the arrangement earlier, was unsurprised by it. But a plan in concept was different in actuality, and he looked at Glorfindel and Silon on a horse together with a tilt of his head and a thoughtful look on his face.

Glorfindel raised an inquiring brow at him, which Legolas responded to with an unreadable expression. He said nothing though, and led the group of four soldiers into a hard run, southwest.

**# # #**

The horse beneath him was born for a wild chase.

Glorfindel barely had to spur him on, and he was seemingly, astoundingly unburdened by the two elves on his back. Legolas and Istor, each riding solo and the latter leading a spare horse forward for Glorfindel and Silon, were just a few strides ahead of them and the distance stayed that way. They were moving forward so forcefully that Glorfindel could feel Silon's grip tighten on his waist, and they both stayed low and centered, close to the warhorse's mighty back.

Glorfindel almost laughed aloud, enjoying the feel of the warm power that thrummed beneath his body.

The hooves thundered mightily on the ground, for they left the outpost like shooting stars in the night sky. The horses and their riders were equally restless.

Before him, Glorfindel watched Istor to make sure he was handling his new ride safely; the Imladrian did not have his usual ease, but he had balance and security and for now, that was enough.

The Prince, on the other hand... the earthy colors of his soldierly wares were almost a match for the horse he rode, and he sat on the steed so naturally that they looked one. He resembled the fabled centaur, half-man, half-horse. His hair streamed behind him in the wind, that mane of pale gold, barely restrained by warrior's braids.

As the journey progressed, Legolas at the head slowed their pace to a more sustainable canter. Still, the scenery went by in a flurry of colors and shapes.

They moved forward wordlessly as the night deepened, casting long shadows on the ground. The shadows lengthened and contracted with their movement and the direction of the light – first by the moon overhead and then later, in the small hours, by the dim and distant but imminent sunrise.

There were brief, forced stops for the horses to eat and drink or take rest, but the entire party for the most part did not stop.

**# # #**

The group crested a small hilly incline, and spotted the first traces proving they were traversing the same path taken by Rochanar's sons: two tamed horses and one lying on its side on the ground.

They all dismounted to inspect, and it was a good opportunity for their horses to rest anyway. Silon and Istor quickly secured and inspected the two idling, rider-broken horses. If they were functional, Glorfindel knew they would now ride them.

Glorfindel and Legolas squatted before the horse on the ground, taking in his condition from opposite sides. Glorfindel grimaced at the sight of its badly broken front legs. The horse was clearly suffering, and has been suffering for some time. He laid a hand on its head, and offered it what comfort he could.

In the fringes of his senses, he could hear Legolas speaking with the hurting beast in the gentle lilt of his archaic Silvan tongue. Glorfindel sank into the sound, letting it engulf him and magnifying it for the horse.

And then suddenly, his connection to it was terminated.

He opened his eyes – the horse was dead, by a swift, clean knife to the heart. And Legolas hadn't even bloodied his hands. The Woodland prince pushed restlessly up to his feet.

"They ran it ragged," he said in a low, dangerous voice. His chest was heaving with anger, "And did not even have the courage to end its misery. What makes them think they can walk into Dol Guldur and... their father..."

He shook his head in disgust.

Glorfindel rose too, and watched as he gathered himself.

"Silon," Legolas called out, changing the subject altogether. "Those horses are functional?"

"Yes," Silon replied. He took on a clipped, official tone as well, knowing as Glorfindel was learning, that it was what Legolas needed. "I suppose when this horse fell the brothers switched rides to fresh ones and left the injured and tired horses here. But these are well rested now. We can move out."

He and Istor took over the abandoned, tamed pair with much relief, leaving unoccupied two spare wild horses: the one Istor had been riding, and the spare one he had on a lead for Glorfindel and Silon. To give his horse a rest, Glorfindel transferred to that one. Legolas showed no need or inclination to change from his, but he did keep Istor's former horse on hand for later.

With the new arrangements made, they continued on their journey.

**# # #**

The sunset was magnificent, as the party traversed the rolling fields with mountain ranges at their back and to the west on their right, as they ventured southwards.

They rode at sensible, sustained speeds but barely stopped, only doing so for periodic checks and rest for the horses, or switching mounts as needed. The wild ones were unsurprisingly hardier, but the tamed horses were better at restraint. They all had their strengths.

There were no occasions for conversation, so Glorfindel let himself slip into introspection. How would they find Rochanar's sons, he wondered, and how amenable would they be to a peaceful surrender? He pondered these things as he slowed his breathing and gathered his strength. If a fight was to erupt, he had to be as rested as possible.

Twilight came, and then the deepening night.

They went on. When Glorfindel switched to the white, broad-backed horse of his first preference, he had even drifted to a light, restful, sleep.

But then, he was stirred awake by Silon exclaiming, "Blood has been spilt this night!"

Glorfindel's eyes snapped open. In the east, the first strains of morning could be seen in the lightening skies.

It was dawning red.

And before he could ponder on the brutal possibilities of this ominous sign, the sound of an orc horn pierced the relative quiet of the small hours.

Legolas looked at him grimly, and spurred his horse forward faster. He released the horse he held on a lead so as not to hamper his movement, but it followed after him anyway.

"Legolas!" Silon hissed disapprovingly from behind them, and was either unheard or ignored.

Glorfindel paced the elven prince easily. "Restraint, captain." He used the military title to invoke order and control.

"That was a call for reinforcements," Legolas called out to him in justification, over the roar of horse hooves. But he did slow down, marginally. "If Rochanar's sons are fighting and that enemy call is heeded, they won't stand a chance. They are there – look!"

Glorfindel, admittedly, strained. The Woodelves' eyes were more accustomed to the dark, and the sun was barely dawning. But _there!_ near the edges of the woods to their left, in the visible distance, was indeed, a skirmish.

"We cannot approach in stealth," Legolas called out, "not coming from these plains. But a shock attack, a hard, open approach – it might disperse them. They might think there is more of us. We can sweep in, rescue the brothers and make our own escape, before their reinforcements come."

Glorfindel could only agree, and he spurred his horse forward.

**# # #**

It was a mild torment, how the eyes can see so much farther than speed could reach. It lasted a seemingly long, torturous lifetime, how they could see the fight and yet be kept by the natural laws of the world from reaching it as quickly.

They rode the horses hard and unforgiving now, with Legolas and Glorfindel at the head, being the fastest. Beside him, starting at a good shooting distance, Glorfindel could see Legolas with his bow and arrow. Shaft after shaft in quick succession he released them, and was shortly after followed by Silon's efforts once he had crossed the same closing distance.

As they thundered closer, Legolas shifted weapons to his twin, slim white knives. Glorfindel readied his sword.

It had taken an eternity to reach the fray, but the suddenly it was just a handful of leagues away, all blur and color.

From the corner of Glorfindel's eye, he saw Legolas brace himself on the back of his half-mad wild horse, and then vault himself up into the sky. Thus, he entered the battle at a fierce angle from the air, knives drawn, golden hair flying behind him.

It was, Glorfindel realized, the first time he had seen Legolas fight.

And then there was little else to look at beyond his own foes.

**# # #**

The battle raged in Glorfindel's veins.

He entered the fray fighting, but took stock of the situation calculatingly too. First, to note they were fighting _uruk-hai_ – enemies more skilled, more calculating. Second, the battlefield looked like the remnants of a camp for there was a fire, and a miscellany of living detritus. Rochanar's sons had apparently engaged a band of _uruk-hai_ during a camping stop. Third, a half dozen bodies littered the ground – most of them _uruks_, but two of them, not.

He fought his way to the closest one. It was an elven soldier, one of Rochanar's sons. Glorfindel dispatched a foe promptly, and quickly squatted to the ground and laid a hand on the elf's neck.

Glorfindel felt Silon and Istor arrive behind him. Istor shifted and stood to cover him as he checked on the fallen elven soldier, while Silon ran past him to fight his way to the other body.

Rochanar's son already looked dead, but Glorfindel had to make certain.

He was.

Glorfindel moved on, as he had to.

He rose promptly and readied his sword. He and Istor stood back to back as a hungry pack of _uruks _gathered around them. They swung and hacked at their bloodthirsty enemies. These were more skilled than orcs but easy enough to dispatch if one was well-trained, experienced and in control, but there was many of them. More would be coming too, if that orc horn was heeded by someone nearby.

Glorfindel worked faster.

He and Istor were well on their way to completely clearing their immediate area when he heard two words that would brand into his mind for ever.

_"__Legolas, no!"_

It was how Silon had said it, the impotent desperation of his cry.

Glorfindel had the deeply-ingrained military discipline - _just barely_ – to try and rid himself of the opponent in front of him before he turned to look at the cause of Silon's jarring exclamation.

He slashed upward and deeply at the _uruk_, and drew out his sword while kicking the body away. Another took its place, but in the brief space of time between the fall of one enemy and the rising of another, Glorfindel laid eyes on a sight that made his breath catch, his heart drop to his stomach, his extremities turn ice cold, his blood stop. The world, it _froze_.

Legolas was on his knees on the ground.

Glorfindel could only see him from the left side, in profile, before his sightline was blocked. He focused on killing his next foe, quickly. As a seasoned warrior, he knew that if he endangered himself, he would be of no use to anyone. He went for the _uruk's_ neck, and he jumped over its collapsing form to fight his way to Legolas.

The elven prince was still where Glorfindel had seen him. Legolas was kneeling by the tree line, half-shadowed. His body was tensed and slightly turned away, and his arms were strained to shaking, holding back something Glorfindel could not see from where he was coming from.

Around Legolas, the _uruks_ he had felled lay, including two still-twitching bodies that each sheathed the twin white knives he favored in a close-contact fight.

Behind Legolas and under his apparent protection was one of Rochanar's sons, the youngest, the one Glorfindel had met. This Rochanarion was incapacitated but still somewhat alive - Glorfindel could tell by the wide, darting, fearful eyes and the blood that gushed out in spurts from his body. He did not look as if he would be much longer for this world.

And beside Legolas, on the right side away from Glorfindel's limited, profile view, was the only one left of the _uruk-hai_ Legolas had been fighting...

... the beast was holding the hilt of a vicious, curved blade that did not stab or skewer Legolas as much as it, it _hooked_ him.

Its tip had entered the Woodland prince's stomach near the navel at an angle and curved into him until it came out of his back, near his side.

It was a bad wound now, but one pull – _one pull_ – from the _uruk_'s powerful paw and Legolas would be as good as cut in half.

One pull and he would be dead.

Legolas' straining arms were holding tight to that of his _uruk-hai_ attacker's, to prevent that very outcome. The _uruk_ was growling and hissing as he fought for purchase, and Legolas was trembling, weakening, _losing_. His hands began to slide from the hilt to the blade itself. His palms were cut, red blossoming anew from his body.

Glorfindel knew he was not going to be fast enough. His eyes, again, held the cruelty of being able to see that which he was powerless to stop -

"Stop!" Silon screamed, sounding like Glorfindel's own's soul's cry. He had said it with such manic desperation that the _uruk_, for reasons all his own, did.

"Stop, stop..." Silon said quickly, tossing away his weapons and opening his emptied arms wide to show, in the best way he possibly could, that he was now unarmed.

The _uruk_ looked at his surroundings sharply, quickly coming to the conclusion that all his compatriots were dead. He was the only one left alive.

A dangerous glint entered his eye. It was a look that Glorfindel read easily, for the _uruk_ braced to resume and strengthen his attack on the waning elf he had stabbed and brought to the knees. The _uruk_ knew it had nothing left to lose, and would kill this being brutally before its friends.

"That is Thranduilion," Silon said quickly, breathlessly. "That is the Elvenking's only ch-"

Legolas growled at him in visceral but ultimately futile command for silence. His bleeding hands slid from the curved knife in his body, strengthless. He was shaking badly from shock – not yet it seemed though, from pain. The adrenaline was still shielding him from that. He glared at Silon venomously. His chest heaved up and down, up and down from exertion. He was breathless from the exertion of the fight and the untold inner effects of his injury. Every breath was fought for, hard won. His steely eyes were glazing. Still, he glared.

"Liar," he hissed at his friend. The word was delivered as if it was a curse, and not in the definition of an exclamation. It was an invocation of ill will. "_Liar_."

The _uruk_ thought Legolas was calling Silon a liar for making the royal claim, but Glorfindel knew differently. He remembered a talk he and Legolas had some time ago.

_"__A lot of my soldiers have extracted this promise from me: death before capture, and a quick, merciful one," the prince had claimed._

_"__And have you extracted this same promise from others?"_

_"__I do not believe them," the wood-elf admitted._

Legolas was calling his friend a liar, for a broken oath: death before capture.

By Silon's flinch, he knew it too. But he was undeterred. He refused to even look at his prince. He was resolved, Glorfindel could see, to save Legolas' life even if it meant betraying Legolas' wishes. Even if it meant betraying their kingdom. Even if it meant betraying _himself_ \- for certainly Silon must have known that in breaking his word, he would never have the chance to be loved back. This was love at its hungriest and most merciless, where it consumed itself, killing off its own possibilities.

"He is the Elvenking's only remaining child," Silon said. "Look at him, for godssakes."

The _uruk_ was intelligent; many were bred to be so now, in these dark days. It saw quickly a narrow window for survival. He slid to his own knees behind Legolas, making the prince his shield. With his left arm, he hooked Legolas about the neck, and he held a slim dagger to it. He kept his right hand on the hilt of the menacing blade hooked to Legolas' side.

One push on the dagger at the neck and Legolas' throat would be slit. One pull on the curved blade and he would be cut to half of his stomach.

Glorfindel was still armed, and so was Istor near him. But from where they were, there would be no way to hit the _uruk_ without him first making either of the slight movements that would end Legolas' life.

They were at an impasse, and the elves had more to lose.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

'til the next post!


	17. Idiosyncracies

_** hello everyone!**_

_**Massive thanks** to everyone who is still with me on this. It's just been (I think), 3days since the last update but I don't know... part of me needs to get on with this I think, so here is another chapter :) Dedicated to the kind reviewers who make me wish I was better and faster. Thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts on my work - your influence is outsize. As always, C&Cs are welcome, and I hope you enjoy the reading as much as I enjoy the writing. Have a wonderful weekend, everyone!_

**_A warning: Violence and self-harm. If you should choose to proceed, please do so with caution. If you would rather not, send me a PM and I will try to give you a less graphic summary._**

**# # #**

**17: Idiosyncrasies**

**# # #**

_Mirkwood, T.A. 2851_

**# # #**

Legolas squirmed in his captor's hold, but the pain that had been eluding him thus far found him at last.

The movement jarred the precariously held blade in his stomach, and with a sudden whoosh of air escaping his parted lips, his eyes fluttered up to the skies, and his head lolled. It would have hung and pressed against the blade at his neck, but his alert captor jerked him back and it fell limply against the _uruk's_ shoulder.

Betrayed first by Silon, and now by the needs of his broken body.

"Legolas!" Silon cried out worriedly, but was met with no response. "Legolas!" Glorfindel could see him shaking. He turned his attention to his enemy instead. "That is Thranduil's o-only remaining child. Imagine what, what a b-boon it would be for your master, if you should d-deliver him alive."

The _uruk_ tilted his head at Silon in thought.

"You will never let me leave alive with him!" it growled, "Perhaps I kill him now, for my own satisfaction."

Silon was trying to think quickly. "I understand your predicament. How about, um, how about this? We will disarm ourselves. You let us treat him – the blade can only be removed the way it came in I think you know, and he will not survive long if you drag him around the forest like that. Then you can take all of us prisoner."

"I am no fool," snapped the _uruk_, "You will find a way to subdue me on the road to my master."

"Tie us up."

The _uruk_ snorted, for his counterpoint would have been the same. A single uruk could not be expected to successfully contain three hale warrior elves on the road – Glorfindel, Istor and Silon – even unarmed and bound.

"Then let us tend him first, and you can restrain and leave the rest of us," Silon said.

"You will only follow."

"But you will have a big lead," Silon countered swiftly. He was speaking fast, seizing in the enemy's overpowering desire to survive and its profound uncertainty of how to do it.

"Take me instead," Glorfindel found himself saying. From the corner of his eye, he saw Istor's head all but whip in his direction.  
"Your master will not much mind the replacement," Glorfindel went on. "I will also be a more mobile companion – uninjured, you wouldn't have to carry me. I have a higher likelihood of survival on the journey, besides."

"Give up the Elvenking's son for you?" the _uruk_ sneered. "I know you, do not think I am unaware." He said something in his foul tongue, something that sounded like a curse. "While it would be a pleasure to skin you and piss on your gods, golden elf, that pleasure will not serve my master well. But Thranduil's whelp would be a good tool for bargaining."

"We will do anything you want," Silon said, "As long as you keep the prince alive. This is your only recourse to stay alive yourself. You know what I say is true."

If the _uruk_ killed Legolas, the three elves around him would pounce on him. He wouldn't stand a chance. The beast made his calculations; Glorfindel could see it in its eyes. They were sharp and fearsome, but also darting and afraid. The choice was to either die, or bring his master home an invaluable prize. The handsome rewards outweighed the risks.

"Drop your weapons," the _uruk_ said to the three elves.

Silon had already done so for his most visible of weapons, but now he divested himself of everything that constituted armor or aggression on his body. As surely as he had bared Legolas' identity, as surely as he bared his own desperation to keep his prince - his _love_ \- alive, as surely as he stripped his own self of his reservations and sense of word to Legolas or duty to his king and country... he disarmed himself.

It took Glorfindel a moment longer.

_This is what you wanted, isn't it?_ he asked himself. The first objective in situations like this is to do everything possible to survive. As long as there is survival, there is hope for rescue. Hope for mercy and divine intervention. As long as one is alive, hope is alive.

But why did he hesitate now?

He did not trust the _uruk_, for one. If he, Istor and Silon were restrained, what was to stop the beast from killing them all and making off with Legolas? Or worse, killing all of them anyway? Furthermore he knew without any shadow of doubt:

_This is not what Legolas wants._

Glorfindel wanted badly for Legolas to live. But did he want it enough that he would disregard the wants of the very person he cared for, just as Silon had done? Would he dare deprive the one he loved of what that person wanted most, that is, to be useful to his people until the very end? Was love that preserved the other at all costs a selfish one, and thus not love at all? Beside him, Silon's choice was clear and he was committed to his course.

"Glorfindel disarm," Silon whispered at him urgently, for Istor was waiting for a cue from his commanding officer, and the _uruk_ was watching them nervously.  
In the meantime, Legolas was stirring awake. His eyes opened blearily, and he remembered his dire situation at the speed of light. He could barely raise his head, but his eyes strayed first to Glorfindel, and then to Silon.

Silon, who had betrayed him.

But gone was the hard, venomous gaze of the prior exchange. It was replaced by something far more dangerous: a soft understanding. Almost – _forgiveness_.

Glorfindel knew in an instant what Legolas meant to do.

The wounded prince - captive in his enemy's arms, weakening and useful now only to his people's bitterest foes - angled his head toward his sleeve.

His pursed mouth sought the hidden pocket there.

Finding the lump of the poisoned seed he had concealed in it for occasions such as these, he bared his teeth and opened his mouth to take a bite.

**# # #**

Silon had betrayed Legolas first.

But it was Glorfindel who actively ended all of Legolas' hopes for a quick death on his own terms.

The ancient warlord reached for an old chestnut that he had lovingly kept in his pocket throughout this trip, and he threw it with might and accuracy. It hit Legolas' on the mouth, and his poison pill fell to the ground with it.

The elven Prince looked at Glorfindel with disbelief, which soon gathered into a storm of anger, one he hadn't even subject his enemies to. It was a loved one's betrayal, and that perhaps hurt him more than the _uruk-hai's_ bloodlust or unrequited Silon's desperate gamble.

The _uruk_ tensed, confused about what had just occurred. But he had some military restraint not to kill Legolas outright. If it were an orc or goblin, Glorfindel was certain it would have gutted Legolas by instinct.

"That was a poison pill," Silon said quickly, to appease the beast. "Spare him, please. You see how sincere we are in trying to keep him alive. Imagine the sway your master would have over the Elvenking and our people. Imagine the power your master could wield over the Elvenking's lands, his army. Please. Please." To Glorfindel and Istor he hissed. "Disarm, damn it."

"Don't," Legolas rasped. His gaze had crumbled to begging, now. He begged Glorfindel. "Do not do it, please. _Meleth..._"

His voice wavered and thinned, and his heavy arms crawled to the hilt of the knife still embedded in his body, meaning to push it in deeper, this time.

Glorfindel promptly threw his weapons aside and fell to his knees, himself begging now. Begging the orc, but mostly begging Legolas.

He had never begged before in his life. It was a merciless parody of his previous confession – _My feet do not touch the ground, because I am on my knees with you..._

_I am on my knees._

Istor followed in his commander's actions.

Stray tears streamed from Legolas' disappointed gaze, so deep and clear and haunted, until he closed his eyes and shielded them from Glorfindel's view. He held the hilt near his belly with resolve.

But with Istor and Glorfindel disarmed and the _uruk_ warily satisfied, the enemy could finally turn his attention to his prisoner. It swatted Legolas' heavy, clumsy hands away, and shook him in warning. The hilt against Legolas body was almost like a lever, jerking him around and jarring the wound such that the elven prince could not help a pained cry.

He pressed his lips together and took hard, shuddering breaths. His face was crumpled in agony, and tears leaked from the corners of his tightly shut eyes. Even though he clearly wanted to die and spare his kingdom from coercion, physical torment was still physical torment, and he was as encased in the limits of a body same as anyone else. A low moaned seeped from his pressed lips. This tormented song wound itself around the very heart of Glorfindel, and he knew it would never leave him. Not even if they all somehow emerged from here alive.

Legolas then hung his head forward – as if he was in so much pain he could barely raise it, but he was also simply aiming for the knife at his throat. The _uruk_ warrior held him straighter, and tighter, tugging at his golden hair.

"Let us help him," Glorfimdel said quietly and carefully. "He will not last long, thus."

"Only one," the uruk growled, and he jerked his head at Silon. "You."

"I am better versed-" Glorfindel tried to argue, and it was true – even if both he and Silon were familiar with field treatment, he had more years of experience, and could use some of his power to ease Legolas' pain.

The_ uruk_ cut him off with a dark curse he almost spat out. The only thing Glorfindel could pick up from what he replied next was that, "I don't trust you."

The beast then ordered Silon to tie up Glorfindel and Istor at the wrists, the knees, and the ankles. There were many ropes at the uruk-hai camp with which to accomplish this, many of them blood-spattered and soiled. The gods knew what they were being used for. Silon grabbed at them and worked on Istor first.

"Tightly!" the uruk barked impatiently while Silon scampered to comply. In the enemy's arms, Legolas was reduced to a dizzied, shaking, fading heap. They all knew the sooner he could be tended, the higher the chances he would survive. But he was not the only elf that desperately needed aid. Rochanar's youngest son, still lying bewildered on the ground, was fading fast.

"Would you let me look after the child?" Glorfindel asked his enemy.

The beast glanced at the young elf and gave Glorfindel a derisive snort. "It is as good as dead."

Glorfindel couldn't disagree, and yet he had to.

"Then I would be wasting my time only, not yours," he said.

The _uruk_ ignored him, and commanded Silon to tie Glorfindel up next. Silon duly and quickly followed. Caught in their equal love for Legolas and consequent betrayal of him, the two elves were in close quarters but could barely look each other in the eye.

Glorfindel made no move to resist as Silon worked on his bindings, though – _loosely_, he soon realized. The Mirkwood elf made unnecessary straining movements to simulate the tightness of the ropes, a show for their captor. The sharp-eyed _uruk_ had caught the trick with Istor and asked him to do it tighter, but Glorfindel thought to distract him and perhaps angle his body discreetly away so that his bindings were less in view.

"Is the blade in the prince's body poisoned?" he asked.

"No," came the growling reply. But the beast gave him a perverse grin. "Might not be so clean, though."

"We will tend him and then you can take him," Glorfindel said, "but would you know how to keep him alive on your road?"

The _uruk_ bared its teeth at Glorfindel with a mix of pride, anger and menace.

It did not look incapable of caring for a serious wound, Glorfindel had to concede. In fact he looked incredibly adept. _Uruk-hai_ – hideously battle-scarred, sometimes maimed – were somehow always functional. By their own brutal creation and training, and later in their fights with men, elves and dwarves, _uruks_ were well used to grievous injury and by necessity, the crude but effective treatment of them.

Silon stepped away from Glorfindel and turned to Legolas and the uruk. "You will let me see to him, now."

The _uruk_ grunted in agreement. Silon kneeled on Legolas' afflicted right side, and laid out the things he would need from his soldier's pack. Legolas, panting and dizzied, followed his movements with a dull, heavily-lidded gaze.

From where Glorfindel was tied on the ground, his view of the procedure was obscured by Silon's back. Silon was bent over working on Legolas of course, but Glorfindel also suspected that Silon was shielding the loosely-tied Glorfindel from the _uruk's_ gaze.

Glorfindel took stock of his surroundings, as he loosened his bonds all the more. But he kept the ropes where they were, for the sake of appearances. Legolas was still firmly in their enemy's arms, still had a blade to his neck, still had a knife through his body – and so Glorfindel still had to wait for a good opportunity to strike without unnecessarily risking him.

In the meantime, he could hear Silon work. He heard the rip of Legolas' clothes, so that there would be better access to the wound. The barest movements caused the prince's breathing to catch and hitch, until he started choking on his own air.

Silon tried to shush and soothe him, but Legolas' breathing only turned more ragged – and inadequate gasps of air were soon exhaled more and more as stilted cries. The curved knife, Glorfindel suspected, was now being drawn out the way that it entered. The _uruk_ warrior guffawed.

Glorfindel's insides twisted, and he felt dizzied and sick at what was happening. He reached his _fea_ out to the ailing elf to offer some form of comfort and connection, but he quickly found his song completely drowned out by Legolas' all-encompassing misery.

It was like a whipping wind at the height of a storm in a pitch-black night, unearthing random things from the ground and churning them in the air: his body was physically hurting, but so was his soul. In that swirling, hungry maelstrom, Glorfindel felt Legolas' self-hatred for the weakness that had brought him to his compromised position; blinding pain for his wounds; frustration at helplessness; worry for his people; sadness for his father; disappointment in Silon, and for Glorfindel... for Glorfindel there was _nothing_. As if he did not know yet how to feel about Glorfindel's betrayal.

_Meleth_, Legolas had said when he was begging the ancient warlord to be spared torture and captivity and worse, to be spared the utility of their enemies. _Meleth..._

"What is that?" the uruk demanded, cutting into Glorfindel's thoughts.

"For his pain," Silon replied under his breath. The curved knife that had been inside Legolas' body was now on the ground beside Silon – sickeningly stained in hues of red and black, from blood and clots and bits of flesh. Silon was now making Legolas drink a cordial. "He needs it if you want him to survive what I'm about to do."

Legolas, dizzy and barely aware, did not want it. What he really wanted was the blade on his neck. He tried to turn his head, away from the drink, toward the knife. Away from healing, towards death. The _uruk_ held him tighter, and so did Silon. That they were working together made Glorfindel's skin crawl. They managed to get some of the medicine into Legolas' mouth, but he spat it at his loyal friend's face.

Silon shook it off, and said something in Silvan to his prince, something that appeased him. He got more of the drink into Legolas, then, and asked the _uruk_ to lay the elven prince down.

"No," insisted the beast, unwilling to relinquish his position of protection and power. Like this, Legolas was his shield. Like this, he could get up easily and leave quickly as soon as they were done. "You do what you have to like this, or not at all. Quickly, now!"

Silon sighed heavily in resignation. He was a warrior still though, and had glanced at the curved knife on the ground, the one he had taken from Legolas' body.

The _uruk_, seeing his gaze and reading his thoughts, leered at him, and cut Legolas slightly at the neck, just enough to draw some blood, just enough to discourage Silon. The Mirkwood soldier growled in grudging acquiescence. He started gathering white cloths from his pack and soaking them in spirits.

"You need to hold him well," he told the uruk, when he was done with his preparations.

"It's just a little prick," the _uruk_ said with a grin, shaking Legolas slightly again, playfully. "You fuss with this one much. My master really will have Thranduil in a vice-"

Silon did not let him gloat for long, likely did not wish for Legolas to hear much more of it than he had to. With swift movements made merciless by necessity – ignoring how Legolas bucked and thrashed, and cried out hoarsely before slumping senseless – Silon used some of the cloths to pack at the hideous cavity crafted by the penetration at his side. The others he used to press against the injury at the entrance and exit wounds, putting as much pressure as he dared, and binding them tightly. It was quick, efficient field treatment, but when he finished, he was visibly shaking. Glorfindel was trembling too.

"That's that then," the _uruk_ leered.

The foul beast picked up the curved knife from the ground beside Silon, who rose warily with hands raised. The uruk then hefted Legolas up over one broad, mighty shoulder.

"You shouldn't carry him that way-" Silon protested.

"You've no say in it now, elf," the _uruk_ grinned, and with a swift movement, raised his weapon and sliced it across Silon's chest.

**# # #**

Silon crumpled to the ground.

Glorfindel hurriedly extracted himself from the ropes that bound him and shot forward, putting himself between Silon and the _uruk_ who held Legolas.

Glorfindel could hear Silon gurgling and gasping behind him, but he kept his eyes on his enemy. The _uruk_ looked surprised and slightly alarmed at Glorfindel's freedom, and the menace the ancient warlord wielded even if he had no weapon in hand. But the _uruk_ knew he still had the injured prince securely in his arms with which to bargain.

"Best see to your friend, elf," the _uruk_ leered, as he warily started backing away, into the shade of the trees.

Glorfindel's mind raced. Behind him, he could hear in Silon's breathing, the gravity of a wound that would kill soon, if untended. Behind him, he knew Rochanar's son was little better and would die without help. Behind him, he knew Istor was still tightly bound and should not be left to the mercies of this unsecured land. But in front of him...

In front of him was Legolas.

In front of him was Legolas, borne by their sworn enemy, on his way to the shadows of the forest south, on his way to being used against his father and his kingdom.

But even without that, in front of him was _his_ Legolas: helpless, unconscious, hurting. About to become a prisoner, bound almost certainly for torture. In front of him was _meleth_, about to be lost and near irrecoverable.

Glorfindel made a step forward to come after them, but it felt immediately wrong. Silon's gurgling gasps were loud and oppressive in his ear. If he walked away, he knew for sure that Silon would die. At the same time, he also knew that if he let the _uruk_ leave with Legolas, the enemy would keep the elven prince alive. That the prince would suffer in their hands was a given, but he had a better chance of living than Silon or Rochanarion did if Glorfindel left them.

What had Legolas said? If the only outcome was death, the only option was less death...

Glorfindel growled under his breath in profound displeasure, but he knew in his heart what was right, and his need to pursue it was a thrice-damned curse, all too often.

He turned away from Legolas.

"No!" he heard Silon choke out, but Glorfindel was resolved. He picked up the first discarded weapon he could find, and he quickly freed Istor's hands and slipped the blade into them.

"Free yourself and tend the boy," Glorfindel commanded, as he slid to his knees beside Silon.

"No," the ailing elven soldier cried out, swatting away Glorfindel's hands as he started to see to the brutal wound.

"Calm yourself and we will be faster!" Glorfindel hissed at him, and this appeased Silon temporarily. Anything and everything for Legolas, it would always be for this one.

Glorfindel ripped at Silon's clothes, to find a ragged wound that cut long and deep, from his right pelvis going up across his chest, ending at the left shoulder. It bled in furious spurts, and the Mirkwood elf's skin was rapidly turning gray.

"Leave me," Silon whispered up at Glorfindel, before crying out at the elf-lord's hasty attempt to press the yawning gap at his chest together. "I am gone, my lord. I am – " he screamed and thrashed in pain, but Glorfindel had no choice but to continue. He pressed, and took every piece of cloth in his reach to staunch the relentless flow of blood.

"St-st-stop," Silon said breathlessly, "Glorfindel, p-p-please. I am gone." He raised one hand up to grip at Glorfindel's arm. They were trembling uncontrollably but strong and insistent, even as he faded. His other hand was clawing desperately at the ground on his side as he tried to find some outlet for his pain. "Leave me," he said softly up at the ancient warlord, "You are n-not one of us. You will l-lose Legolas in th-the woods. You need t-t-t-to come after him, now. While you can f-f-follow. Now!"

He had said the last as a scream, a release of his pain and frustration, but also of his conviction.

"This is a survivable wound with prompt and proper aid," Glorfindel muttered, focused on his work. It was by somewhat good fortune that the field treatment supplies were still laid out on the ground nearby, because Silon had fallen near where he had just been treating Legolas. "But everyone here is trying to die.  
"What affect is this amongst our kin in the Woodland," Glorfindel went on, and his hands worked while his _fea_ reached out to try and soothe the other. "What would I report to the White Council of this idiosyncrasy- idiocy? I forget – of all of you..."

It was a joke, and Silon groaned for his bad wound but also perhaps, for Glorfindel's foul humor.

"You need t-t-t-t-to leave me," Silon gasped. "Legolas will n-n-n-need you. He will wake, f-f-f-fighting soon."

Glorfind grimaced. He doubted that very much, given how the prince looked.

"I g-g-gave him Rossenith's potion," Silon revealed.

Glorfindel's blood froze in his veins at this information.

Silon hadn't really betrayed Legolas' will – he had found a way to buy his prince time, and lend him strength so he could continue to fight. It was why the Silvan words Silon had murmured at Legolas earlier succeeded in calming the prince enough to drink some medicine. It was not some normal healer's brew they were trying to get him to drink, it was Rossenith's infamous potion - the one that could get, as Legolas once described it, the 'half dead to fight as if twice alive.'

"He will wake f-f-f-fighting," Silon went on desperately, "and I d-d-do not know if he c-can win, like that."

Glorfindel's heart caught in his throat, and while his mind worked his busy hands continued tending Silon. A Legolas unconscious in captivity had a higher likelihood of survival, than a grievously injured one who would fight to the death.

_Legolas will need you..._

_You will lose him in the woods..._

_I do not know if he can win..._

"I cannot leave you," Glorfindel told the grievously injured elf, and he knew it in his heart. It was not in him to leave a comrade like this, even for someone he loved. It was not in him, for all the merciless righteousness of it, and his cowardice to defy it and thereafter live with himself. He glanced at Istor, himself busy fighting for the life of Rochanar's last living child.

"I cannot do it, Silon. I am sorry."

"I would leave you," Silon told him vehemently. "If it w-w-were you here, I wouldn't even th-think of it. I would leave you t-to-ssssave him."

"It doesn't matter," Glorfindel told him evenly.

"B-b-b-better than me," Silon said breathily, "It is why Legolas..." His voice drifted off, but Glorfindel knew the rest. Silon was going to say, it was why Legolas loved him best.

An orc horn sounded again – and that was it, the dreaded reinforcements called for seemingly a lifetime ago. If the _uruk_ carrying Legolas had any sense of self-preservation, it would seek to unite with its comrades... and Legolas would have slim to no chance of success in fighting all of them.

"You need t-t-to come after him," Silon said, with renewed desperation. "You need..." His voice drifted off, and Glorfindel glanced at his face to check if he was still alive. Silon had a thoughtful expression on his face, but he was definitely still alive.

Glorfindel lowered his head to focus on his daunting task. He had a stone in his gut, a lump in his throat and his heart was caught in a cold freeze in his chest for Legolas, but he still did what he needed to do, to stabilize Silon somehow and give him a chance at survival. He worked, even as in his mind's eye he could see Legolas in the arms of an _uruk_, going deeper and deeper into the shadows, farther and farther out of his impotent reach, moving closer and closer to a mass of enemy reinforcements.

Silon had fallen completely silent for too long. Glorfindel raised his eyes up from treating the elf again. Their eyes met.

"Don't tell Legolas," Silon said quietly, and Glorfindel wondered at what he meant, until he realized Silon's free hand had gone to press something into his mouth.

"No!" Glofindel gasped, reaching – too late – for the poison pill Legolas had previously dropped, and that Silon had apparently found on the ground in all of his pained clawing.

It was quickly ingested, and Silon would undoubtedly soon die of it.

"Damn it Silon," Glorfindel hissed, his hands fruitlessly reaching to pry open the other elf's mouth. To do what, he did not know for Rossenith's poison pill was already gone, and working. It was meant to be quick and merciful.

Silon's heart started beating faster immediately – and the blood that Glorfindel had been trying so hard to staunch now came out in spurts, with a vengeance. And then Silon's breaths came in furious and shallow, small gasps through a narrowing sieve.

"Save him," he whispered up at Glorfindel, before his throat closed.

And though Glorfindel felt he was going to lose his damned mind for all the thrice-damned mad wood-elves here, he rose quickly to his feet to ensure this sacrifice would not go to waste. He turned his back on Silon and the last of his wretched breaths.

Glorfindel scrambled for the nearest sword – any would do now, given the deep and profound anger that thrummed through and powered his heated veins.

He barely even spared a glance at Istor, whose arms were bloodstained to the elbows trying to keep the last of Rochanar's stupid sons alive. And then he was off into the trees.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

'til the next post!


	18. Do Not Tell

_**hello everyone!**_

_Thank you so so much to all who are still with me on this, especially the kind reviewers 0 you guys definitely keep me going. I wish I was faster and better, but I am trying my best :) I have so much on my plate at the moment, but this story is a solace. Thank you for sharing your time with me. As always, C&C's are welcome and wildly appreciated, ajd I hope you enjoy the read as much as I enjoy the writing. Best wishes, all! Without further ado: _

# # #

**18: Do Not Tell**

# # #

_Mirkwood, T.A. 2851_

# # #

Glorfindel's first instinct was to run blindly in the direction of his recollection of where Legolas had gone. But Mirkwood, already lush and complex, was increasingly in tangles southbound. He suddenly felt dizzied, as if he couldn't tell left from right and up from down, much less determine where that _uruk_ had gone, dragging Legolas with it.

He growled impatiently under his throat, but his years have ingrained in him considerable discipline and restraint too, enough that he knew it would be wiser to stand still and take stock first.

He paused, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to the closest tree. It quickly sent him a jumble of images and sensations, nothing he could concretely understand.

_You are not one of us_, Silon had reminded him, _You will lose Legolas in the woods..._

Glorfindel's breath caught in disappointment and desperation. But clinging more tightly at the bark of a tree wasn't going to do much for him. He tried to calm himself, and found his fervent desire melting into an urgent prayer.

_I pray _for_ you..._

_I pray for _you_._

Glorfindel opened his eyes more centered, and with a better sense of direction. He did not know if it was gods-given, only that there was a sudden, empowering certainty in his heart and in his steps. He followed the smell of orc body and blood. He followed the disturbed ground. He reached out his _fea_ to seek Legolas', and this he found like a beacon. Like a candle in the night, a light in the dark. Legolas was alive, and very much _awake_.

_May the light of your life be a torch on the path of the lost..._

They all led to the same place, and Glorfindel stalked through the forest in that direction, suddenly unmissable. Every step brought him closer until he was suddenly, almost simply_ there_ – where Legolas stood, now holding both the blade that had been previously against his neck and the curved knife that had just been extracted from his stomach. It was black-blood-stained now, and the _uruk_ who once owned the weapons lay dead at his feet beside two others.

Before Legolas was a patrol of _uruk-hai_ reinforcements in ready stances, growling and salivating and panting in anticipation of their vastly outnumbered elven prey, while they slowly formed into position to surround him.

Glorfindel reached out his _fea_ to make sure Legolas knew it was him coming at his back and side; it would be too unfortunate to be skewered upon arrival by a hypervigilant ally. Legolas gave him a brief and barely discernable nod, but otherwise focused his attention on their foes.

The Woodland Prince adopted a ready fighting stance of his own. He looked savage, in Glorfindel's eye – sickly in pallor and wild-eyed, with torn and bloodied clothes and hastily-made, spotted bandages covering injury beneath. But in defiance of it all, his posture was in perfect form and coiled with power, unhampered by disability or pain. If anything, he looked more rabid and dangerous. He didn't just look ready for a fight, he looked as if he was spoiling for it, practically thrumming with anticipation for it.

Glorfindel shared that same appetite, at the moment. Maybe more – Legolas did not know yet, the loss that Glorfindel had left behind and the anger he now carried, moving forward. He would speak of it later, if they lived through this.

Glorfindel struck first. Even before the bloodthirsty orc. Even before the savage prince. He was not sure what it made him, only that he was angry, and he wanted this ridiculous exercise over with so that he could deal with all his other myriad problems.

Beside him, he could see flashes of Legolas' golden hair, striking against the darkness of their enemies and striking against their deep-hued blood. It danced and whipped in the winds with Legolas' almost impossible movements. He did not look hampered by the physical laws of the world, much less the bodily injury he carried.

Glorfindel kept one eye on him and another on one faceless foe after another after another. All too quickly, his rage melted away into the rhythm of experience and prowess. He simply cut them all down. Sometimes, _sometimes_, it was just too damned easy to kill.

Suddenly, the last face fell and none came after it.

Suddenly, there was time to take stock.

The forest floor was carpeted in the blood and bodies of their enemies. A sea of their askew limbs and anguished faces separated the two golden elven warriors left standing. Legolas had never looked so far, Glorfindel thought, their distance seemed insurmountable. To get to the other, he had to cross a hellish landscape.

The blue gaze of the other elf met Glorfindel's – it was so wide and wild it almost belonged to a stranger. Legolas had almost always held himself in close control, and Glorfindel knew this was Rossenith's potion at work.

Glorfindel moved around the bodies toward Legolas, while the other did the same. They would meet somewhere in between. In the meantime, they kept their gazes on each other. Legolas' was unreadable, and Glorfindel wondered if it meant Legolas still did not know what to think or feel about what Glorfindel had done.

Legolas broke the silence first. He was more restless.

"You and I," he said as he caught his breath, "We need to have a conversation about your concept of non-interference."

"I made no such promises," Glorfindel told him tightly.

Legolas narrowed his eyes and looked thoughtful at that, and he frowned upon his recollections of the night they had spoken about Legolas' preference for death over captivity. He had tried to extract a promise from Glorfindel not to interfere, but Glorfindel had been very careful not to give his word. Legolas sighed in defeat.

They stopped within an arm's length of each other. Glorfindel's eyes rove over the younger warrior's powerful form, wondering and at the same time apprehensive that Legolas' movements showed no disruption from injury at all.

"Maybe all's well that ends well," the prince said tentatively, making Glorfindel look up at his face again. He had a hesitant smile trembling at his lips. "Silon's harebrained scheme worked, after all. I will not let him hear the end of this – that he can communicate with the orc better than he could with all the rest of nature."

Glorfindel winced, and Legolas' gaze was drawn down to Glorfindel's hands.

"That is Silon's sword," the prince said in confusion.

Glorfindel looked down too; he had not bothered checking what and whose weapons he had picked up, in his blinding rage and rush to get here. He had picked up Silon's. He looked at Legolas' face, and at the crushing realizations dawning there.

Legolas' wild eyes hardened, and without a word he turned away from Glorfindel and started running back the way they came, back to where Silon's body was left.

Glorfindel followed, but a wood-elf running amongst the twists, turns and tangles of his forest was near impossible to catch up to, and the prince's figure became a smaller, more distant sight.

The closer they got to where Silon lay dead, the farther and farther Legolas became.

_You will lose him in the woods_...

Glorfindel persevered and stuck to Legolas. But by the time he had broken to the clearing past the tree line, the prince was already on his knees by Silon's body.

Tears streamed continuously and almost absently from his blue, blue eyes, but his face was set like stone. His adroit hands – the most capable on a warrior that Glorfindel had ever seen in all his lives combined – flailed and trembled now. They did not know where and how to touch the body before him. They hovered over the half-treated wound at Silon's still chest, hovered over the slack face with the empty gaze looking up at the heavens.

Glorfindel hadn't waited for Silon to die, when he left. But he was most certainly dead, now.

Legolas' hesitant hands settled for Silon's dark gold, almost coppery hair. He brushed at the smooth strands lovingly.

"What happened?" he asked hoarsely. "He was unharmed. I remember he was tending me..."

"The _uruk_ that took you struck him before taking you away," Glorfindel answered. "He was unarmed and defenseless. I am sorry."

Legolas' hands squeezed at the tips of Silon's hair before he reached for Silon's face and closed his empty hazel eyes. Legolas' hands were _uruk_-bloodied, however, and he unintentionally stained Silon's cheeks.

"Damn it," he grunted, and he clumsily pulled his torn shirt forward to wipe the offensive stain off. "Damn it, Silon. Damn it all."

Glorfindel was biting his lips so hard he was drawing blood. Legolas was clearly anguished, and he did not even know the rest of this sordid tale.

_Do not tell Legolas..._

_Do not tell Legolas..._

Glorfindel lowered himself to his haunches, and placed Silon's sword by the poor Mirkwood soldier's dead, slack hand.

"You should have let me die," Legolas said bitterly, under his breath. Glorfindel looked up at him, but Legolas wouldn't do the same. He could have been speaking to either Silon or Glorfindel, for the parts they both played in saving him, for the parts they both played in Silon's ultimate death: Silon for bargaining with the _uruk_, and Glorfindel for depriving Legolas of his last resort.

"My lords!" Istor called out from behind them. He was still tending Rochanar's youngest son.

Legolas rose to his feet and walked in their direction. He stood over them, looking at the younger elf's situation with a cold gaze.

"He's ceased breathing," Istor reported.

Legolas moved quickly then, with vicious purpose. Glorfindel scrambled after. The elven prince started pounding at Rochanarion's chest, while Glorfindel arranged his head and neck to open up his airways, and started breathing into him.

"Come on," Legolas grunted at the effort of pushing at the younger elf's body. "You are not permitted to die, I've paid too much for you..."

Glorfindel listened with half an ear as he coaxed breath and life back into Rochanarion's battered _hroa_. He could also feel Legolas' increasing anger, and the mounting desperation of his efforts.

"Eru above you foolish, thoughtless child!" the prince exclaimed, his own breaths coming short now, "I will not countenance your death. If this is how it goes I would have spared us all the bother and slit your throat when we met..."

Legolas was rapidly tiring though, and the frustrated ranting petered away. After a long moment, their efforts were rewarded by a small gasp from the body beneath them.

Rochanarion shuddered back to life, and started coughing to expel away the foul air from his lungs. Legolas wearily sank to his rump on the ground, while Glorfindel held the younger elf still, at the chest.

After the painful – _bloody_ \- hacking eased, Rochanarion's glazed eyes drifted to Glorfindel's, and he shakily raised a finger upwards, pointing vaguely up at something in the sky.

Glorfindel, confused, reached for the hand to console him. But Rochanarion was insistent, and shooed the comfort away. He took a careful breath, and pointed again.

"Up," he whispered weakly. "In...the...trees."

Glorfindel turned his head to look, then. And he found, hidden in the branches and the thick foliage, were _faces_.

Grimed, fearful faces of human children of various ages, in various states of harm and health, looking down at him apprehensively.

A story rapidly unfolded in Glorfindel's mind.

Rochanar's sons, in their ill-conceived efforts to get to Dol Guldur, had by incident thwarted an _uruk_ raiding party's capture and slavery of human children. It was a common activity for the _uruks_, and it was why there was a camp here. It was also why there were so many soiled ropes lying around.

Rochanar's sons' failed undertaking had resulted in the death of one Mirkwood soldier from the northern outpost; the death of loyal Silon; and ultimately, the death of each other. But by some skewed arithmetic or humor of the gods, the brothers' rash actions had saved the lives of many children.

Glorfindel looked down at the final, living Rochanarion in surprise and disbelief. Their eyes met for one final moment of shared understanding. Then the younger elf's body shuddered, and his eyes rolled back to empty whites. His struggling chest rose and stuttered, then stilled.

There would be no more calling him back.

Even Legolas knew it. He looked up at Glorfindel with weary, haunted eyes.

**# # #**

Istor and Glorfindel coaxed the children down from the tree's canopy. They were hesitant and very afraid, but they already had some trust of the elves, and Glorfindel supplemented it by reaching for their souls and imparting them with a sense of warmth and assurance. One by one, they came down.

Glorfindel could not help himself. He counted them – as if every life saved could account for the loss of others. Rochanar, taken. Three sons dead. One Mirkwood soldier dead. Silon dead. Heck, even the horse the brothers had ridden to the ground was dead, and two of the horses they brought into battle.

One by one the children came down, enough to numerically account for all the losses and more – the boon to come from all the foolishness and folly of Rochanar's sons.

_You can be selfish and stupid and still do some good in the world_, Glorfindel thought. It was ironically reassuring, but he could not help his own bitterness. He knew it was a mean thought, especially of the dead, but did not disown it.

_I am allowed. I am no god. I have neither their benevolence, nor their caprices._

Istor would reach up for each child and help them to the ground, while Glorfindel ushered them to stand on a clear spot, away from the carnage. He could not shield their eyes from the mess, nor, he found, did he have any compelling desire to.

_This is the way of the world, until we can make it better_.

But the older of the captives were not immune to hardship, and knew to distract the youngest among them. One of these, a young girl who protectively held the little ones, caught Glorfindel's attention. The ancient warlord knelt before her, so that they could look each other in the eye.

"Are there any more of you hiding elsewhere, my lady?" Glorfindel asked her gently.

Her eyes roved about her companions, counting as Glorfindel had but for different reasons. She shook her head and cleared her throat. "Th-th-this is all of us, m-m-my lord."

He gave her an approving nod, before continuing with his questions. "Were all of you taken from the same place and time?"

She licked at her dry lips, and Glorfindel offered her his water skin to drink from. She did not partake, but passed it on to the younger children.

"Yes, my lord," she answered. "We are p-people of the woods. We were taken from our village home, just south of the old road."

G;orfindel hesitated. He knew arrangements would have to be made to re-patriate the children, but did they even have anything to return to?

"What happened to your home?" he asked her gently, "to your families?"

"The orcs raid and p-p-pillage," she replied, "almost always they end up k-k-killing somebody. But they d-d-do not destroy everything. They like c-coming back every few years or so..." She glanced uncertainly at Legolas behind Glorfindel. "We are known to the folk of the Elvenking. We used t-to have more c-commerce with them, in better times."

Glorfindel glanced Legolas' way too, and realized why the child found the sight so strange. Legolas was still on the ground, but this time, inexplicably crawling on all fours around Silon's body.

Glorfindel gripped the young girl reassuringly by the shoulder. "Arrangements will be made for your safe return, I swear it. But for now - excuse me."

Glorfindel walked quickly to get to Legolas, and squatted beside him.

"Legolas," he called out softly.

The prince, as his colleagues have once said, had more cause for nightmares than most. Glorfindel knew firsthand too, of the occasional torments that plagued his battle-scarred mind. But has Silon's death damaged him irreparably?

Legolas, however, was moving with a purpose. He was scrambling for something on the ground, Glorfindel realized. Something important that had fallen there... Glorfindel's hands turned cold.

"The poisoned seed," Legolas grunted at the ancient warlord, without bothering to look up. "The one that fell when you defied me. Help me find it. I would retrieve if I could. If it were left here and consumed by an animal or some unknowing, wandering child, death would be swift."

_Do not tell Legolas_.

_Do not tell Legolas_.

_Do not tell Legolas_.

But how couldn't he? Glorfindel stayed where he was, wondering if he should lie, or pretend to look for the thing until the unlikely event that Legolas decided to give up on it. He had to do or say something, anything. But Glorfindel was at a loss.

"Help me look," Legolas snapped, looking up at Glorfindel, then. "It is your fault it is lost, the least you could do is help me look. All these deaths will draw out foul creatures, and I need to bring us to safety while my strength holds - I only have hours. We need to leave. Even - even proper burial of our d-dead will have to wait. Will you help me in this, at least?"

Glorfindel's mouth was dry, and in his ears again he heard the plea of Silon, one of the final words he would ever say.

_Do not tell Legolas_.

"You won't find it," Glorfindel told him softly.

"What?" Legolas asked in impatient confusion.

"You won't find it," Glorfindel repeated, more firmly.

"But-" Legolas looked from Glorfindel to Silon's body, nearby. "I don't understand."

Neither did Glorfindel. The world was a _mess_, and all the encroaching dark of this place was catching, virulent, corrosive.

_Do not tell Legolas_.

And yet Glorfindel had no other answers to give, and didn't Silon deserve to be known for his generous sacrifice? But the ancient warlord briefly imagined how that conversation would go.

_Silon was grievously wounded. It was a survivable wound, given prompt and proper attention. I was stabilizing him. He was urging me to leave and come after you instead. I knew if I left he would die, and I refused to do it. He found the poison seed and ingested it, to force my hand. He made the choice that I could not – to save you, at the cost of his life. He saved both of us – you your life, and me my sanity._

But Glorfindel did not have the stomach to burden Legolas - already shaky with injury, stimulant, and mourning - with it. At least, not yet. He couldn't think of a better reason to bite his tongue.

"Silon was badly wounded," Glorfindel said. "He found the pill on the ground and took it, to expedite his own passing."

None of it were lies; he just omitted a few things in between. But were half-truths in effect whole-lies as the saying goes, if they formed an entirely different picture?

_You know the answer to that_, he berated himself. And Legolas sensed it too.

The Mirkwood prince shook his head in absolute disbelief. "He wouldn't do that. He would fight until he couldn't – especially because I was taken. He would fight until the end. He wouldn't have gone that way."

"I don't know what else to tell you," Glorfindel said quietly – also, not a lie. "But for now – your search is a fruitless one, and just as you said, we need to leave."

Legolas looked at Glorfindel with furrowed brows. His gaze was still wild, but he was blinking and blinking, trying to regain some equilibrium perhaps, trying to think better.

"Silon would have fought until he couldn't," Legolas insisted. "Especially because I was taken."

The prince stared at Glorfindel closely, almost – _invasively_. Glorfindel wished very much for his face and his eyes and his soul to close, to reveal nothing. But Legolas had other means of finding out the truth. Because they were near the tree line, there were sporadic outcroppings of roots on the ground. Legolas reached for a red blood-spattered one, and found in the song of this tree, a tree that Silon had bled over, the answers Glorfindel was loathe to give.

Legolas took his hand away from the root as if burnt, and closed his eyes in abject misery.

"You should have let me die," he whispered, and Glorfindel knew this condemnation was solely for him, this time. If he had just left Legolas to his final recourse, Silon would almost certainly be alive.

Legolas' shoulders slumped, bearing the weight of Silon's sacrifice and Glorfindel's part in it, bearing the weight of his brutal personal history, bearing the weight of all this accursed place. When he opened his eyes, he looked extraordinarily weary – for even as he carried all of these burdens, he had one more to bear.

As the only Mirkwood soldier left of their party, he was grieving and badly injured, but he still had to lead them to safety. He let his blue gaze shift from Glorfindel to Istor, to all the frightened human children that were now their responsibility.

"We need to leave," he said dully.

"We will," said Glorfindel, "but a moment taken now to check your injury-"

"You have forfeited any right to concern yourself with my well-being," Legolas told him in a low, suddenly dangerous voice. Anger was giving him renewed strength. "You will not touch me. You are a lord of unparalleled standing but you are in _my _kingdom, and you will suffer it now, to be led by me. Your defiance has already cost me much. _You_ will listen to _me_, now. And when this is all over – you and your soldiers will leave my home."

_He is hurting_, Glorfindel reminded himself, when his own hurt and indignation were helplessly stirred by the realization that blame for Silon's untimely passing was now being unfairly levied on him. But then again, who else was left alive to blame? Glorfindel appealed to the other's reason and sense of duty.

"A small amount of time invested now," said Glorfindel, "will be invaluable later, if what I do helps you last longer."

Legolas huffed impatiently, but acquiesced with a brief nod. He rose and swayed slightly, and he looked surprised by his weakness. Glorfindel ached to help, but Legolas shook his head determinedly and steadied quickly on his own. He walked to the nearest tree, and slid down to sit leaning against it.

"You should lie down," Glorfindel told him.

Legolas dismissed the suggestion at once and said, plainly, "Rising again will be harder."

Glorfindel, pained, closed his eyes briefly with this admission, before setting to work. He parted away the remnants of Legolas' shirts and inspected the wound. Silon had done a decent field job, considering the little time and supplies he had, and all the pressure he was under. But the tight bandages about Legolas' middle was already spotted with blood, no doubt from his recent exertions. Legolas glanced down at it.

"I barely feel it," he said in breathy surprise, touching at the edges of the wrappings tentatively.

"You are either still bleeding," Glorfindel told him. "Or bleeding anew. I think more the latter, else..."

_Else you'd have bled out by now_.

"I will add to the wrappings," Glorfindel said instead. "I will not dare re-open them here and now, if we will not have time for proper care. Besides, I do not know what damage you have inside, nor would I have the expertise to treat it. Stabbed in this location and given your functionality though, the injury appears to have missed or perhaps only nicked your most essential functions, and the _uruk_ said there was no poison."

_Thus, if you are dying, at least you are dying slowly..._

"Either way," Glorfindel exhaled, "given our situation, I can really only treat the blood loss." He started busying his hands with the said task, but spoke as he worked. "What exactly does this stimulant of Rossenith's do, and have you had it before?"

"It gives tremendous reserves of energy for a few hours," Legolas answered. "It is commonly used, and I am no stranger to it. I feel no pain – that is as expected."

"But sometimes pain is good," Glorfindel pointed out, "It is an indicator of your condition. It tells you what is wrong where, and will tell you when to stop pushing yourself."

"Well we cannot stop, can we?" Legolas snapped. "I would just as well do without it - Are we done?"

"No," Glorfindel said, reaching for Legolas' neck. The Mirkwood elf swatted at his hand, but he pushed on until he reached the pulse point. It was hard, and racing, and his skin was clammy.

"Have you proven I'm alive?"

Glorfindel was worried, and so he devolved to sarcasm. "Not for long, with that foul temperament of yours."

Legolas shook his head in dismay, both at Glorfindel and perhaps, also himself. He silently looked away.

"You do not look well, Legolas," Glorfindel told him softly, "Your heart, the sound of your breathing... everything is wrong, or going in that direction."

Legolas shook his head. "There is nothing to be done, and as I said I've had this before. We have a few hours."

"If this potion of Rossenith's works by stimulating strength and blocking out pain," Glorfindel said carefully, "Is it fair to say a mortally injured soldier on it can simply continue to function until he falls dead?"

"That has been known to happen," Legolas replied grimly. "When a soldier's functionality masks unchecked blood loss, internal injury, and severe concussion. They really can just drop dead - but do not worry yourself about that for me, my lord."

"Have I forfeited that right too?"

Legolas' eyes drifted to where Istor and the children stood – the people whose lives he was now charged with preserving.

"I won't die now," he said quietly. "I don't have that luxury."

**# # #**

Wild horses were fast, but they were still unreliable in a tight spot. Panicked at the fighting, they had dashed away where the tame ones had not. This left the three elves and the eleven human children with them fewer horses than they needed: the two that Silon and Istor had ridden into battle, and one surviving out of the three brought by Rochanar's now-dead sons.

Legolas sighed as he contemplated his options. Glorfindel for his part, tactically understood that they had two routes to safety. They could go back the way they came, across the plains with some on horses and some on foot, toward the northern outpost. The flaw in this plan was that they would be very slow going, on top of being exposed to further raiding orcs or other aggressors. It was a trip that would last days, days he knew Legolas did not have on the wound he was nursing.

The other route they could take was to go into the forest and work their way northwards as much as they were able. A Mirkwood patrol was bound to find them sooner, especially if more soldiers were dispatched southwards with the messages they had sent out and if Tauriel and Renior had achieved their goal of gathering a patrol. But the flaw here was that while they would be on their own for a shorter time, the woods were tangled and twisted and extremely dangerous. Three elves protecting eleven human children in this setting was already wildly risky, even if two of them weren't foreign and the third wasn't struggling with a gut wound and walking on his last legs. Furthermore, when said legs inevitably gave out, the entire party would be lost in the forest without his guidance.

The forest was more dangerous, but faster to get to help. The plains were safer, but would take too long. The forest no one but Legolas could navigate, but the plains, if – _when_ – he fell, Glorfindel and Istor could manage.

Legolas worked his lip as he made his own assessments. His solution surprised Glorfindel.

"Three children to a horse," he declared, "We elves, and the most able of the remaining little ones, will walk alongside. We go south, to the Woodmen settlement where these children were taken from. It is close enough, provisioned, and reasonably defensible. And the settlers will know how to reach the closest Eryn Galen patrols to say where we are."

"You should take one of the horses for yourself," Glorfindel pointed out.

A flash of annoyance streaked across Legolas' gaze, but he tempered it, and shook his head objectively at the suggestion. "A traveling party is only as fast as its slowest member. On my current strength I will be faster than the children if they were made to walk on my behalf. If the situation changes and I falter – maybe. But not until then."

"Is the settlement close enough to get you there on the borrowed strength from Rossenith's brew?" Glorfindel asked.

Legolas winced, and did not answer directly. "At least this way, you and the children will know where to go and what to do, when it fails me."

**TO BE CONTINUED...** T'il the next post!

**_MEDICAL NOTES, 2:_**

I usually place notes at the end of fics, but in this case I think this will be interesting to readers now rather than later :)

**Legolas' Injury and Rossenith's Potion. **Gut wounds are extremely complex, and it won't be the same for everyone. As I mentioned before I am not a doctor, I am a writer / researcher, so the things that appear on my fic tend to have some real world grounding but a whole lot of creative license. In this case, I felt I needed a serious wound that also allows the sufferer to last for a while. Was something like that possible in the stomach? In my research, I found one Japanese officer from World War II who did _seppuku_ – ritual suicide with a grievous abdomen wound – and he took 15 hours to die.

As for Rossenith's infamous potion... "Mirkwood soldiers on drugs!" sounds off in concept, but some of the greatest fighting forces of the world in all of human history, are widely believed or are documented to have used drugs to aid in the fighting.

There were drugs for masking pain, increasing energy, lowering inhibitions and overcoming doubts, among many others (for further reading: _Shooting Up: A History of Drugs and Warfare_ by Lukasz Kamienski).

Here are some examples. Vikings Berserkers, known for their wild ferocity, may have been powered by mushrooms (particularly the Amanita muscaria fungus, a hallucinogenic drug). In World War II, Nazi officials and soldiers used morphine, cocaine, and particularly widescale, Pervitin, a type of crystal meth that rightly acquired the nickname, "assault pill." For Vietnam, many American soldiers had access and later became addicted to heroin.

For a specific case, Google "Aimo Koivunen." This Finnish soldier is famous for accidentally ODing on speed via Pervitin while fighting in World War II. He became delirious, lost consciousness at some point and found himself alone. He was injured by a landmine, lay in a ditch for almost a week, then carried on alone eating nothing but a raw bird and some buds of pine in -20 weather until he reached help. His heart rate doubled, his weight was down to less than a hundred, but he traveled 250 miles and _still _lived past not only the war but until the late-1980s!

Legolas' precise internal injury and Rossenith's potion will remain unnamed, but you can approximate the practical effects with these examples. As you can see the inspirations for this angle of the story has some grounding on real life. Sometimes, truth is really stranger than fiction!


	19. Promises

**hello everyone!**

_ Thank you so much to all who are reading, following, favoriting and especially reviewing. REVIEWERS: you guys are a treasure, and how quickly this story is progressing and being posted isn't just _for_ you, it is _because of_ you. Thank you for sharing your time and thoughts with me. _

_RL is still wild - good wild, but time is so scarce now and I may need to go on an indefinite fanfic hiatus again soon (so much of my original work has been neglected by my distractions and I know I should be better about prioritizing monetizable activities, hahaha). But this story will be finished and is a matter of fact is almost fully written at the moment. I just hope the quality is still good :) _

_At any rate - C&C's are as welcome and treasured as always. Please feed the writer if you can and even if you couldn't, I sincerely hope you enjoy the reading as much as I enjoy the writing :) Thank you again, and I wish everyone a lovely weekend! _

_Without further ado:_

# # #

**19: Promises **

# # #

_Mirkwood, T.A. 2851_

# # #

The bodies of the dead _uruk-hai_ were left where they were, but Rochanar's sons were dragged to lie beside each other and arranged in dignified poses with their arms crossed at the chest and weapons in their hands. Muted prayers were murmured for them, before the group left them alone.

Silon's body on the other hand, Legolas had picked up himself. He adamantly refused any help in its handling. If the movement dealt his grievous wound a blow, Glorfindel couldn't tell for his fine face was set like marble. Legolas took the body in his arms and held it tightly in an embrace, and then climbed with it up a tree to settle amongst some of the branches. It was meagre protection from any wild beasts that would be lured in by the stench of corpses, but it was the best they could do for Silon in that moment.

Legolas emerged from the foliage bearing Silon's sword, and one of the warrior's braids that had been framing Silon's face. These were memorial keepsakes; they all knew there was a high likelihood that nothing much would be left of the body by the time they returned.

**# # #**

It wasn't so much a walk as it was a miserable trudge forward.

Of the children, no one was wholly healthy because each of them were in a spectrum of exhaustion, minor injury, and trauma. But only nine could ride and two had to walk, and that was simply how it had to be.

The halest amongst them were put to the task on rotation. But even the best of the bunch were exhausted, and the gods knew how long they have been walking with the abusive _uruk-hai_ by now. The whole group was thus, slow going.

Legolas, Glorfindel and Istor each led a horse bearing an older child holding two smaller ones, while the two strongest children struggled along with the three of them. As for the elves, they were continuing on for the nth night without real rest, and none of them were at their best.

It was a bedraggled, pathetic procession indeed.

Legolas was at the head, leading one horse bearing three riders. Directly behind him was Glorfindel with his own lead and the two older children assigned to walk, and behind them was Istor with his own burden, holding the rear.

They moved forward quietly. When one of the children walking by Glorfindel faltered and his knees buckled, the ancient warlord caught him by the arm and slung it over his shoulder to support the exhausted youth moving forward. They barely broke stride, and Legolas determined at the head, barely glanced at them.

When the other child faltered too, the group finally took a moment of rest. Water skins were passed along and the horses were allowed to eat and drink. Even the elves sat on the ground.

"At least the sun is out," Istor said out of the blue, his mild tone and voice suddenly loud because everyone was still too tired or too stunned to talk much.

Glorfindel nodded in agreement; the sky was blue and bright, and the plains looked empty and safe, stirred by gentle winds. It was - not counting the devastation they had left behind them - an almost insufferably, perversely beautiful day.

Beside Glorfindel, Legolas was quiet, clasping his slightly trembling, scarred hands together as if conserving strength, even as his leg bounced slightly in restlessness. His eyes were still sharply focused and intense, but there were small creases of strain at their edges now, and around his tightly set mouth. He was pale too, and on his face was a sheen of sweat. He swiped at his forehead and eyes in annoyance.

"The bleeding's stopped?" Glorfindel asked him, faux-casually, for he remembered the last time he had tried to tend the _ernil_.

_"__You have forfeited any right to concern yourself with my well-being," Legolas had told him venomously, "You will not touch me..."_

"Yes," Legolas replied stiffly, and he rose to his feet as if to illustrate so. Again, he swayed – he might not have been feeling pain, but his body was slowing down either way. But like before, he steadied himself. Glorfindel had reached for his elbow, but grasped at nothing but air.

"We need to leave," Legolas declared.

**# # #**

They reshuffled the children, so that two of those who had been on the horses would now do their turn walking. There would be no such relief for the three elves who simply had to trudge on.

Mid-morning stretched to high noon, and they did not stop. They knew they had to maximize both the extent of Legolas' waning strength, as well as the safer travel in daylight.

Glorfindel watched Legolas walk ahead of him, alert for any sign of distress. He watched with a pit in his stomach as the assured steps of the prince softened, around the same time as the glaring daylight overhead softened into the afternoon.

He walked apace with Legolas, then. He shifted the hold of the horse lead to his left hand, so that Legolas would be walking on his free, right side. Legolas did not glance his way.

When he stumbled and Glorfindel caught him by the elbow, he jerked off the ancient warlord's hold and steadied himself, walking onwards.

By the time the skies turned into the golden hour though, the prince was holding the horse he guided not by the rope, but with a palm to its side, borrowing some of its strength and at times, even leaning upon it.

He finally fell when the sun started setting.

Legolas' legs folded beneath him, such that he fell almost in the way of the horse's hooves. It neighed softly in disapproval and shifted away, protecting its riders but leaving Legolas to collapse on his side on the ground. He curled around himself and groaned quietly.

"Boy!" Glorfindel yelled as he threw the lead he was holding at one of the children walking beside him. The other child ran for the line that had slipped from Legolas' hands. Glorfindel then skidded to his knees at Legolas' side, and braced him at the shoulders as he tried to rise.

Legolas pushed the touch away. It was still unwanted. He couldn't seem to stand it, Glorfindel's touch and all that it meant – pity, sympathy, worry, _apology?_, love. He was still too angry from the loss of Silon, and Glorfindel knew he was still being blamed. He knew he was still unforgiven.

Glorfindel shifted to face him, and raised his hands up in surrender and appeasement, even as Legolas glared.

It was, however, a temporary rally. The elven prince turned away and he retched at the ground, on all fours. It was a small thing, but Glorfindel pulled his long golden hair away from his face, and this Legolas allowed, at least. That, or he did not notice it in his misery. He trembled uncontrollably, and from what Glorfindel could see of his lowered, shadowed face, he was gray and sweating, and his eyes were tearing and his nose ran as he emptied his stomach. Glorfindel glanced at the sickness on the grassy ground. There was no blood, to his relief. But this fall was only the beginning of a certain and steep decline.

Legolas continued to gag until there was nothing more to turn up, and initially his body tilted as if to lie on the ground, but he re-directed his weight and sat on his rump miserably instead. He wrapped his arms around his belly, drew his legs up, and lay his head over his knees.

Glorfindel, hesitantly, released Legolas' sweat-damp hair. His own stomach was twisted in knots too, in concern over the other's injury because he knew that not only was his help not wanted, whatever he could give was also not going to be enough. Rossenith's potion was wearing off, and Glorfindel did not know what else he could do for Legolas.

The elven prince shook, almost violently, for a long moment. But eventually he gathered control of his body, and it faded to a fine tremor. Only then did he lift his head, and he looked around him blearily, with fever-bright eyes. Everyone had fallen silent and still, in apprehensive waiting for him to settle. They were all done with death, and wondered if they would be dealt one more blow here and now - in the fields, beneath the raging sunset.

"It looks like Silon's hair," Legolas said quietly as he looked up at the horizon, as if noticing the time of day for the first time. Glorfindel's heart skipped a beat at Legolas' weary, dark-rimmed gaze. His eyes were so sunken they looked bruised.

"We're not far now," Glorfindel said in a clipped tone, because he was suddenly very, very afraid. "The settlers will have a healer of some sort. But we must go."

Legolas murmured something in Silvan, and Glorfindel did not understand it. His heart constricted at the other's drifting mind.

"Legolas," Glorfindel said, trying to keep his voice even. "We need to-"

"I know," Legolas hissed irritably, and as he unfolded himself, he pounded at the ground in pain and frustration. He grit his teeth, and made to move but ended up biting back a cry. His face blanched and crumpled, and he tilted right into Glorfindel's arms.

Still, he bucked as if burnt. And Glorfindel did not give up his hold, this time.

"I will help you rise," Glorfindel told him carefully, "and if need be, I will help you walk. I know you are still angry, and whether or not you have just cause to be is a conversation for another day. For now - I will help you, and you will accept it. It does not have to mean anything."

Legolas stared at him warily and his brows furrowed but after a long moment, he gave in: "It doesn't... mean... anything," he repeated slowly.

Glorfindel huffed out a breath in relief. He reached out to touch Legolas' scarred, icy palm, and he closed his eyes to share some of his strength and light.

Legolas gasped at the surge of power, but he would – _could?_ – only accept so much. He was closed to Glorfindel, who was still unforgiven. _You will not touch me_, he had said, and in both his _hroa _and his _fea_, he had meant it.

Glorfindel wrapped his arm about the other elf instead, and lifted him to his feet, carefully. Legolas fell dizzied and panting against Glorfindel's chest, but with one arm about Glorfindel's shoulder and in locking his legs, he was upright and moveable again.

Glorfindel held onto him tightly, knowing they would now have to walk this way. He glanced back at the rest of their traveling party. The child he had thrown the lead to his horse still had it. The rope Legolas had dropped when he collapsed was taken over securely by the other. They were all as ready as they were going to be.

"We have it, my lord," one of them told him reassuringly.

They were young, tired, hurting and afraid. But their gazes were fiery and determined.

"Let's go home," said the other one.

**# # #**

Night fell.

The sun sank over the horizon and with the failing light, fell the last of Legolas' strength.

His legs all but vanished beneath him, and when they tangled heavily against each other, Glorfindel let the both of them fold to the ground in a controlled fall.

Legolas was breathing harshly, awake and in pain. But his brows were furrowed, and he kicked at the ground in frustration. His shoulders slumped, his chest heaved and his nose flared with exertion and sheer anger, anger at a will disproportionate to the abilities of his body. He exhaled a breath that sounded too much like a sob to Glorfindel's perceptive ear.

He reached out for Legolas' back tentatively to rub it. The younger elf squirmed away – a less fervent rejection than before, but Glorfindel reckoned it was probably only because he was weakening.

"Would another dose help you at all?" he asked urgently.

"Not... if I want... to live," Legolas replied hoarsely – his mouth was dry from breathing from hours on it. He coughed, and Glorfindel handed him his water skin. Legolas took it and drank just a sip or two before it made him feel ill and he shoved it away. He groaned and bit it back, but he held his stomach and lowered his head, hiding his face.

"Would it react poorly with any other medicine or herb, or perhaps - _miruvor_?" Glorfindel asked.

"Rossenith...does not allow it," Legolas replied, voice muffled from his lowered head.

Glorfindel sighed heavily, and he chewed his lip in thought. "What you are suffering now – is it from the stimulant fading, or from the wound becoming worse?"

"I don't know," Legolas mumbled, unhelpfully.

"You've had Rossenith's potion before, yes?" Glorfindel pressed. "You said coming off of it is misery. Is this that misery or is the wound worse? I want to look at it. Would you lie down now and subject yourself to this?"

Legolas lifted his head at Glorfindel miserably, and he looked at the rest of their group – again, stopped because of him. He shifted uneasily in embarrassment, and unsuccessfully tried to rise again.

He fell back, and leaned away from Glorfindel to urge out the meagre contents of his stomach to the ground. He only brought up the water he had just drank. Glorfindel grimaced in worry and disappointment; Legolas needed that. When he finished, he was shaking uncontrollably again, and huddled into himself.

"You will lie down, now."

"I wouldn't b-be able to g-get up," Legolas admitted, quietly.

"You're unable to get up anyway," Glorfindel pointed out, to which the prince gave out a soft, weary, snort. But he let Glorfindel lower him to his back on the ground.

"Istor," Glorfindel called out to his second-in-command, "Let us give these horses a breath or two, eh?"

"Yes, _hir-nin_," said the Imladrian, who took quick charge of the group and the animals. He also started going about re-shuffling the children again, so that the previous walkers could take their turn riding.

Legolas sighed and closed his eyes, anticipating pain from Glorfindel's probing. But Glorfindel was gentle, and imparted the strength and warmth of his _fea_ with every careful touch. He also had no intention of doing anything invasive – to either's Legolas' fading body, or his closed, reluctant soul. Glorfindel only took a peek at the bandages, which were no longer spotted red. The bleeding has stopped, and he was grateful it was at least one thing they did not need to deal with, not that he was qualified to do anything more.

He reached for Legolas' pulse at the neck, and the elven prince opened one weary eye, and then the other. His gaze was slightly sharper and less hazy; lying down to rest was reviving him a little. But he was still shaking.

"You're freezing," Glorfindel told him softly, as he removed his cloak to place it on the ground beside Legolas. He would wrap Legolas in it later, when he was done - whether or not it was wanted.

"You look worried," Legolas drawled out, almost deliriously. "Don't be. You will see... I am always the one who lives...at the end..."

Glorfindel did not know what precisely he may have meant, and he said nothing else to expound. Legolas' voice drifted off, and he stared up at the starry skies overhead. His gaze rove, and Glorfindel looked up too. Legolas was following the path of a shooting star. His lips parted in wonder, as if his pains were momentarily forgotten, and he murmured dreamily in Silvan. Glorfindel felt the creeping despair in his heart bloom to a fuller devastation now, at the thought that the bright being before him was almost gone.

Glorfindel looked up at their traveling companions. Everyone was tired, but from how restless the children looked, he suspected they weren't too far away from the settlement they called home.

"How close are we?" he asked them urgently.

"If we continue on the way that we have," said the older girl he's come to rely on, "We will be there by midnight. My lord – my mother is a healer, and I swear to you an injury like that she has seen times before. We are woodcutters, you know, and hunted by the orc. Penetrating wounds are not uncommon. She will know what to do, if you can only get him there..."

She did not say the rest; _If you can only get him there in time. If you can only get him there alive_.

"Istor," Glorfindel called out determinedly, "We're moving out."

"Aye, my lord!" came the prompt reply. Around them, the group bustled into place and prepared to depart.

Glorfindel started bundling Legolas into his cloaks, and Legolas groaned with the jarring movements, but he was at least drawn back into the world, back into the situation, back to attention.

"We are near," Glorfindel told him sternly, "I will get you help in time, I swear it."

Legolas _tsked _weakly_. _"Promises..."

"I've not made you one that I've broken yet," Glorfindel muttered at him. Satisfied that Legolas was as warm as he could make him, Glorfindel then announced, "I will have to carry you."

"No-!"

Glorfindel rose for the both of them and Legolas, dizzied, quieted and helplessly shrank into Glorfindel's chest and shuffled close. Glorfindel tightened his hold on the shivering body, which jerked mindlessly against him with the cold. Legolas growled under his breath, angry that he was being manhandled, and angry twice over because he was in desperate need of it.

"I know, I know," Glorfindel told him gently. "You can be angry."

"This... d-doesn't mean a th-th-thing," Legolas reminded his protector. "It's just too goddamned c-c-cold."

"I know," the other murmured, and it was true.

Glorfindel knew.

He knew it to his bones, how much he had lost here. When Silon died as a direct cause of Glorfindel's efforts to save Legolas' life, he had lost Legolas. But Glorfindel held him anyway, and they clung to each other – like a leaf shivering in the autumn wind on its final connection to a withering tree, before winter came to sunder them.

"Y-y-you are ssssstill unforgiven," Legolas stuttered, even as he nuzzled at Glorfindel's warm, sturdy shoulder.

"And I am still not sorry," Glorfindel whispered near the top of the younger elf's soft, golden head. He could never be sorry for having a part in saving Legolas' life.

He felt a wild - and unwelcome - sympathy for Rochanar's sons, then. For their mindless compulsion to reach their father at any cost. For the selfish love that brought them all here.

_I am not sorry_, Glorfindel knew.

He held Legolas, tightly. Not just because tomorrow would come and bear him away, but he held him only for holding him, he held him just because he was cold.

_I do not need you to be mine_, he thought_, I do not need you to forgive me. I do not even need you to love me..._

_... Right now, all I need is for you to feel warm again, and that is all._

**# # #**

Even when you hold someone so tightly, Glorfindel reflected, they can still slip from you. You can only know the precise weight and feel of them, as they go away.

Night deepened.

Legolas, conscious and shivering violently, was light but unwieldly, making unpredictable, jerking movements. He was also _noisy_ – his teeth chattered, and he huffed out breaths from between them, and sometimes he cussed – it was a good cover for whimpering in pain, but in their proximity Glorfindel couldn't miss it even if he tried. They were wisps of air against his collarbone.

Legolas, conscious and still, was silent and _heavy_. The shivering stopped to an occasional shudder, but this was by no means reassuring, for he was still freezing and now just strengthless. Spent. His cold, heavy skin rested against Glorfindel's shoulder. Boneless, he melded against this and all the rest of Glorfindel's body, and his limbs flopped with every movement Glorfindel made. But his glazed eyes were still open, and his lips were moving – mouthing soundless Silvan somethings Glorfindel could not understand. He would look down at his ailing charge often, and once caught Legolas staring at him, gaze half-lidded and soft, unreadable, raking over Glorfindel's features as if memorizing and lazily contemplating all the planes and shadows of him. It was the last Glorfindel would see of the blue, blue gaze for a while.

Legolas, silent, unconscious with his eyes closed, was unbearably, devastatingly _weightless_. Unsubstantial. He was so profoundly absent he had the negative weight of a deep hole, through which things fell and disappeared forever. Glorfindel could not bear it. He fell to his knees, and scrambled for the stuttering pulse at the younger elf's neck.

"You do not have this luxury," he reminded Legolas, voice broken but tone firm. He shook the frail body gently in his arms. "Come on now, Legolas..."

He closed his eyes, and gave up more of his strength, his warmth, his light, into the inert form, into the black hole that he had become. Glorfindel felt he was throwing torches down a bottomless well, where every spark of light only showed how deep it was, though the tongues of flame could never reach the bottom, much less light it all the way through. But he tried, and he felt he could empty himself for all of his trying.

He fed the emptiness with the hunger and calling of his love, his soul. He threw down snatches of memory, beginning with scenes of Legolas' magnificent home. The lush canopies of golden leaves on the treetops, and a thick carpet of them on the ground; of a black forest stirring in the wind welcoming a dance of starlight; of pinpricks of small, candle flames lighting in hope one by one, in a dark night; of sunsets the color of a beloved friend's hair, of mornings that held the sun so high there were no shadows. Of the dawn creeping up and breaking through a swirling horizon.

He sent down too, weighty snatches he had caught of a father's love – of that small, uncontainable smile; of pride, frustration, worry, wonder and utility battling in the sharp, calculating eyes as he pondered his gifted and headstrong son; of a king, one of the most formidable _ellon_ in all of Arda, reduced to begging for help for his only child.

Glorfindel threw in his own feelings, of hesitant fingers ghosting over the collarbone; of desperate kisses that stole the wind; of quiet conversations by a raging fire; of the tender joy of one minute in a day spent, simply walking companionably beside someone as they grew from friendship to love -

"My lord!" Istor called out, breaking Glorfindel from his trance. "We are near enough to fend for ourselves," he said. "Look! Look, my lord! Take a horse and go!"

Glorfindel lifted his head and found in the distance, a light flickering in the dark.

_The settlement_.

His breath caught in his throat, and he turned back to his companions to find one of the mighty horses had already been emptied of its child-passengers. The young ones looked at him with their war-wizened, battle-scarred eyes. They stood tall with chins raised as if to say – _We can take ourselves home, now._

It was not necessarily true in these dark days, and good gods, Legolas would be devastated if more people got hurt for him to live. But the truth was, Glorfindel could barely think beyond Legolas' weightlessness, beyond his absence, beyond the emptiness of the world just because his eyes had closed.

_Damn it _all, he thought. _All of it. _

_All of it_.

Glorfindel hurriedly gathered Legolas up into his arms and deposited him into Istor's, so that he could mount the rider-less horse. It was only for a second, but his arms felt the air sting, with Legolas not being encased in them. It almost physically hurt.

He reached for the prince, and rode the horse hard toward the nearing settlement where he hoped they would find salvation.

He did not even look back at those he had left behind.

**# # #**

Glorfindel kept his promise.

He got Legolas to the Woodmen settlement alive, and thanks to the efforts of Istor and the children who had given up their horse, he was in time for life-saving measures to still bear fruit.

They thundered into the village and were met with hardy men, armed with spears; they had recently come from an attack after all and their children were taken. The village still smelled of fire and blood.

But Glorfindel quickly informed them of two things – that the young ones were still alive and on their way back; and that Legolas needed their help. The villagers mobilized quickly. A small party of men were gathered and hastily dispatched to meet Istor and the children partway. Another party immediately tended to Legolas. They not only assumed the elves were to thank for their children's safe retrieval, be he was also recognized as a high-ranking soldier in Thranduil's army. Legolas was apparently a familiar figure here, when there was more trade between their peoples, and as a Captain whose duties sometimes brought him to their aid.

It was a woman healer who took charge of Legolas' health, and Glorfindel recognized in her sharp, intelligent gaze, the same eyes of the young female child whom he had been relying upon on their road here. The familiarity of her was slightly dizzying for Glorfindel, who was physically and mentally exhausted from the last few days.

His mind whirled with all the tangled lives and circumstances of this benighted part of the world, for Legolas had been injured standing in defense of Rochanar's son; Rochanar's son was protecting the children of the village hiding in the trees; and now it was the villagers saving Legolas' life.

Glorfindel staggered, and one of the able-bodied men wrenched Legolas from him with little effort, while he was ushered to a chair in a humble kitchen that was somehow supposed to be an improvised surgical theater.

The healer and her cohorts had hurriedly emptied a long, wooden table of its contents, ran a soaking rag of fragrant, boiling hot water over it, and then laid Legolas' blanketed form over the cleaned surface.

"Tell me what ails him and what aid he'd already been given, my lord," the healer told Glorfindel sternly, while she cut at Legolas' clothes.

Glorfindel felt himself answering as best he could, but his voice was dull and muffled in his ear. She understood him somehow though, and nodded to herself as if in formation of a plan. She barked orders from everyone around them and they scampered. Soon, someone even gave Glorfindel a strong spirit. He downed it with a wince, and even for the _eldar_ it was potent. His senses sharpened, and he revived enough of himself to be able to rise.

He walked to where Legolas lay. The healers were focused around his torso, and there was room for Glorfindel only by the elven prince's now-bare legs. Glorfindel held the ice-cold flesh at the ankle, and imparted him again with strength, warmth, light, song, memory, _love_.

Anything and everything he could impart, he shared.

**# # #**

Istor and the children of the village returned before the healer was done treating Legolas.

The doors of the humble home burst open, heralding the arrival of the capable young girl who was among the rescued, leading Istor behind her. The healer lifted her head, and her eyes lit with the fire of a mother's love – volcanic, blinding, like the sun. But the look was only a momentary indulgence. She lowered her eyes back to her work.

"Are you well, Alina?" she asked, tone clipped.

"Yes, mother."

"Then wash and help."

The eager young girl nodded and did promptly as she was told. The healer then spoke to Glorfindel, sounding determined and absolutely certain, even though she did not even look his way.

"You have restored my daughter to me," she said as her adroit hands worked over Legolas' broken body, "And so I will promise you this – I will restore your prince to you."

**# # #**

The healer kept her word, too.

By the time the sun rose and its light started peeking between the slats of the wooden walls and between the spaces of the threadbare curtains on the windows, she had finished her surgery and Legolas emerged from it alive.

Marble-white and stone-still, he lay slightly tilted toward his uninjured side on the table, clad only in bandages, his smallclothes and a thick blanket. He didn't move, barely breathed, and remained cold to the touch.

But he was alive.

Glorfindel felt the axis of the world shift to surround only this one single, powerful fact. Legolas was alive, and he knew that nothing else would matter to him for some time.

**# # #**

For a while, the days and the nights looked the same.

Legolas lay unmoving, barely alive. Glorfindel sat on a weathered wooden chair beside him at vigil, the exhausting monotony of waiting and worrying broken only by other repetitive things, like the healer making her periodic checks, and at points commandeering Glorfindel's attentions to more productive affairs than just sitting anxiously by. She needed his help in changing bandages, in helping to nourish Legolas' body, in helping to clean it, in carefully shifting his limbs to stimulate circulation and prevent sores.

Glorfindel was no stranger to caring for the severely injured, but he was used to large households and armies with compartmentalized tasks. This was not his line of expertise. He also did not have the fluidity of movement and certainty of Elrond in tending someone – few did, really – but his warrior's hands often felt large and stiff and unwieldly as he helped, and he feared hurting his charge, that he was inadequate in his help.

The healer soothed him as she did Legolas – she was informative and firm, but encouraging. They both did the best they could, and she watched in satisfaction with some tasks she left to him alone, like washing Legolas' hair, or running a cleaning cloth carefully down his body.

"Why won't he wake?" Glorfindel asked, and his voice was gravelly, and he couldn't for the life of him remember the last time he had spoken before this, or what he had said, or to whom.

"It is a grievous wound," she told him mildly. "Lucky in some respects from the angle, but his body is weary from fighting as long as he had before reaching help. He has farther to go, and though it does not look that way, he is fighting still. It is a delicate situation. Things can still make a turn for the worse, after everything."

Glorfindel sighed as he looked upon the elven prince's slack, still face. _Still beautiful_, he reflected, but that was not Legolas' main strength. It was his light, and it was down to embers at the moment. He brushed back stray strands of damp, clean, golden hair from Legolas' forehead.

"Is he dreaming?" Glorfindel murmured. "I cannot tell. He is closed to me. He is prone to violent nightmares. I would hate it if he should suffer them in so long a sleep."

"He is beyond dreaming," she told him, which was both worrying and comforting. "It is a deep rest, and it is perhaps better at this stage. When he recovers some of his strength, his body will remember other things – and you must prepare for another moment of crisis may strike."

Glorfindel rubbed at his eyes wearily. "Another...?"

"Gut wounds are unclean, tricky," she said. "You are a warrior, my lord, you know this. Ruptures and further bleeding are still possible. Infections and fever, almost inevitable for cases like his. Even in scarring he could have obstructions inside in the long-term. Even in healing there could be swelling enough to compress his other functions. But who's to say – he is of the _eldar_, apparently stronger than most, and he has been very lucky so far."

Glorfindel couldn't believe his ears. "Lucky." He huffed out a dark laugh. "Lucky..."

She looked at him carefully. "You are exhausted. You need to have a care for yourself, too. Get some air. I will watch him."

Glorfindel shook his head mournfully. "If you know him, you will know it is a bad idea to take your eyes off."

She did not push. "Suit yourself."

She moved around Legolas' makeshift bed, toward a few cabinets. She prepared herself some bread; Glorfindel had forgotten they took over someone's kitchen, someone else's continuing life here. He watched her eat, bewildered at the normalcy of it all. She prepared another, slathering a slice of stale bread with something that smelled of spice and honey. She handed it to him, and absentmindedly, he took it. She nodded encouragingly at him to take a bite, which he did.

It was heavenly, and he was starving, and life went on somehow. The colors of the room brightened with every bite he took.

"I'd forgotten we have commandeered your home," Glorfindel said with a nod of apology. "We thank you for your hospitality, over and above your healing hands."

"And you haven't even asked me my name," she told him gruffly – but her eyes were teasing.

"I do know your name," he teased back, mildly, "You are Alina's mother."

She smiled genuinely then, with love for her daughter and pride at the distinction. She looked decades younger. "Yes, that is exactly who I am. Buy you may also call me, Sara."

**# # #**

The crisis came, in the form of a hard, swollen stomach and a blistering fever that the still elven prince couldn't even be bothered to tremble or thrash from. He lay as still as before, except with his cheeks flushed and his skin shy of scalding.

Alina's mother, by the grim set of her thin lips, was worried. But because she was, Glorfindel decided he couldn't be.

I_ don't have that luxury_...

They became more aggressive in their tending – keeping Legolas as cool as possible, draining his wound, plying him with medicine. And Glorfindel determinedly stood by the deep black well that had become Legolas' soul, sending him bursts of light - no matter where they landed, no matter if they were wanted, no matter if they were even heard or received, no matter if it emptied Glorfindel. Loving always was, an act of faith.

The fever left after a harrowing half day and Legolas, though he was as still as before, emerged worse. Severely weakened, almost gray, and of a state so uncertain Glorfindel did not dare take his fingers from the pulse at the younger elf's wrist. He held him there, and imagined his grip as if they were shackles.

_"__You will stay with me, my lord Glorfindel..." _

Legolas had told him that the first time they met, and it was Glorfindel barely tethered to the living world. The younger elf, he recalled, had said it with such earnest certainty.

"You will stay with me," Glorfindel told him now, and he leaned in close by the other's delicately pointed ear. He said it with his voice and his soul - "You will stay with me."

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

_Thank you for your time. 'til the next post!_


	20. You May Let Go

_**Hello everyone!**_

_Thank you to all who are still reading along with me. Special thanks to the kind - and in afterthought even the unkind \- reviews. I admit I was thrown off a bit, but in the end we are all learning here, not just to be better writers, but better readers, better reviewers, better communicators, and better people in general too. To Tisa-Tisa, I hope you reach out to me with a PM so that we can have a proper discussion outside of the public sphere - I don't bite :) I appreciate anyone who is willing to gamble their time on the possibility that some reward can come from my words. I love writing, and I just hope you also enjoy the reading._

**_This is the last chapter, but there will be an Epilogue and an Author's Afterword_**_ to explain, as usual, the method behind the madness. I hope you stick with me 'til the end. Constructive comments and criticism are always welcome. I wish everyone well, and without further ado:_

**# # #**

**20: You May Let Go**

_Mirkwood, T.A. 2851_

**# # #**

The first of the Mirkwood elves arrived at the settlement and among them: Tauriel and Renior.

Their southbound patrol searching for Rochanar's sons were intercepted by Woodmen dispatched to the task, and they were promptly informed of Legolas' state and led to the village.

Tauriel organized her soldiers quickly. The fastest runner was sent to the king's halls. A small task force was dispatched to the site of the skirmish, to tend to the remains of the dead. A group was organized to secure the settlement from any incursion. By the time she got to Legolas' side, she was alone.

She couldn't stifle a gasp at the sight of him, but she had presence of mind to quickly wash her hands and divest herself of her dirtied outerwear before rushing to her prince's side. She did a familiar gesture, something Glorfindel had previously seen on Legolas – her usually steady, capable warrior's hands flailed, as if she did not know where and how to touch the person before her. They were all so very good at killing here, but caring for the ill was less familiar an endeavor.

"How long has he been like this?" she asked Glorfindel hoarsely.

"He lost consciousness on the road here days ago," Glorfindel reported. "He hasn't woken since."

"Legolas," she whispered, touching his hair. "You're not even supposed to be out here..."

**# # #**

Glorfindel did not expect it, but perhaps he should have: eventually, Thranduil himself came.

He arrived uncrowned and clad in regular soldierly wares, but he still stood out, extraordinarily tall and imposing just the same. His clothing of choice indicated to Glorfindel that he had come in stealth, and indeed, the soldiers he passed looked suffused trying not to bow to him. If they were trying to prevent the larger world from knowing Thranduil the Elvenking himself had ventured into poorly secured territory though, they were doing a_ piss poor_ job of it.

He entered the room where Glorfindel again had his hand on Legolas' wrist. He'd gone out of the room on occasion, but whenever he was in it, he would lay claim to the limb straight away. The pulse was stronger by now, but he couldn't for the life of him let go and dare to become complacent. His nerves were frayed, and he felt he couldn't blink, lest another setback befell them, another crisis, another complication.

Around them were Tauriel and Istor, and the healer Sara and the child who assisted her, Alina. They all stood at wary attention, waiting for the Elvenking to take charge of the situation.

"Maenor," the Elvenking called out sternly, and the greatest healer in the Mirkwood stepped forward at once, to care for his most important patient. He moved around Glorfindel, and started debriefing Sara even as he examined his prince.

Thranduil leaned over Glorfindel and murmured, "Thank you, my lord - you may let go."

His mind told him to release his hold on Legolas, but his hands were malfunctioning. Glorfindel looked down at them in accusation, and while could clearly spell the request in his head, his fingers were uncooperative. His breath caught, and he frowned in confusion.

As if understanding his plight, Thranduil lowered his own hands over Glorfindel's and over Legolas' skin. It was a warm, powerful, reassuring hand. Glorfindel lifted his gaze up to the Elvenking's steady stare.

It's been a long time since he'd yielded strength or control to someone, and very few could ever command it of him. But Thranduil's touch became the key to release both Glorfindel's hand that gripped Legolas to life; and the grip the dark situation had on Glorfindel's mind. He pried his fingers off of Legolas' wrist, and yielded the prince's life into the capable hands of his father.

**# # #**

Glorfindel realized quickly that he had nowhere to go.

So long he had been at Legolas' bedside that he now found no place that was his own to retire to. He settled for the narrow, rickety wooden porch around the house that held Legolas. He sat on the ground and leaned against the walls.

It was early evening, and the settlement was subdued. Elven soldiers dispatched for their king and prince's strict security walked freely amongst human men, women and children as they tried to get on with their lives.

Glorfindel watched them absently for an indeterminate amount of time, until he felt Istor sit beside him. The familiar, reassuring presence made him sigh.

"It's a hell of a situation," Istor said – an understatement.

Glorfindel chuckled dryly. "You don't say."

Istor gave him a grim smile. "I don't even know how you plan to report all of this to my Lord Elrond."

Glorfindel winced. Spring was coming, and they were expected back in Imladris soon. They needed to leave at some fixed, imminent date, before Elrond dispatches another group to determine their whereabouts, starting this chain all over again. But when days ago he could leave with a viable plan – a diplomatic exchange borrowing Legolas, who would take the time to recover in Rivendell while liaising with them on behalf of his father, and bearing trained rock dove messengers breeding to boot – none of that looked likely now.

"Everything's changed," Glorfindel muttered.

"You've changed," Istor pointed out.

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow at him, but his second-in-command didn't shy away. Istor shrugged.

"I thought you coming here would bring this benighted place some of your light," Istor told him quietly, "Instead, I think it gave you some of its darkness."

"It is... catching, isn't it?" Glorfindel murmured. "But maybe I'm just tired."

"How do they live like this," Istor hissed.

"Things must change," Glorfindel said. "Somehow, things must change. This cannot go on."

"I can't wait to get home," Istor sighed. "From here we are so near, my lord, don't you think? It's the closest we've been in weeks. We could almost just – leave."

**# # #**

Istor told Glorfindel quarters have been prepared for his use, but while grateful for it, Glorfindel could not bear to be far from where Legolas was, just yet. He stayed where he was and found rest in the quiet night. The settlement was drifting toward sleep; it should be their first good one in a long while, under the protection of the formidable Mirkwood elves.

He fell into a weary daze himself. People were coming and going from the house – Sara and Alina, the healer Maenor and his cohorts, a rotation of soldiers guarding the royals, Tauriel and Renior – he barely minded them, and save for a few early inquiries on his wellness, they otherwise left him to his own morose company.

Except for one.

Thranduil emerged from the house and stood towering over him, casting a dark shadow, obscuring the moonlight. The sight of him almost made Glorfindel scramble to his feet.

"Is Legolas-"

"He is well enough for now and is expected to recover," Thranduil said.

"But who sits with him?" Glorfindel demanded.

Thranduil took his time answering. He tilted his head in thought, and he narrowed his eyes at the presumptuous question. "I wouldn't leave him uncared for," he said, with an edge of warning.

Glorfindel eased back into his position warily. After a beat, Thranduil sat beside him and leaned on the walls himself. Their shoulders touched. They've sat like this before.

"I understand you and your second-in-command have been debriefed by Tauriel," Thranduil said. "I expect a firsthand account, when you are less..." he motioned vaguely at Glorfindel's harried state. He let his voice drift off until he ended with, "When you are ready."

Glorfindel found it in himself to smirk, albeit tiredly. "Of course, Elvenking."

Thranduil nodded. "But from what I already know... it seems I owe you a life debt I might never be able to repay. Again, if that can be believed. I am... unfamiliar with this position."

"You mean, gratitude?"

Thranduil's brow quirked, and he gave Glorfindel a sidelong glance of wry censure.

"I did not do it for you," Glorfindel said. "I did not even do it for Legolas. I did it for myself."

"Yet the outcome is the same," Thranduil pointed out. "He is alive, by your actions."

"Don't remind him," Glorfindel said. "He blames me for Silon."

"Should he?"

"Well, by direct causality of actions-"

"No," Thranduil interrupted. "Should Legolas blame you for the death of Silon? Is it _right_ that he do so? Tell me - why did you defy my son's wish for death?"

"The truth is, I barely gave it thought," Glorfindel admitted. "I find though... lately..." He hesitated and shook his head at himself. "I am increasingly afraid of what I am willing to do, just so he can live."

He remembered it well, the sheer wrongness of the single step he took away from Silon's dying breaths and toward Legolas in the forest. Yet he had taken Istor and the children's offer of a horse for the dying prince, and thundered away in the night - leaving them without a glance behind.

"That is an affliction widely shared," Thranduil said after a long moment of weighty silence.

If the Elvenking caught Glorfindel's admission of love for Legolas, he did not address it directly. Instead, he said, "I always knew Silon would die for my son. I think in Legolas' heart of hearts, he knew it too."

"Yet I am unforgiven," Glorfindel said.

"You are alive and thus – convenient," Thranduil said, pragmatically. "For is it not true that both you and Silon gambled with your lives to save Legolas, and it is only by incident that Silon is dead and not you? If you had died, it would be Silon that is unforgiven. But take heart. That is... too heavy a word. Legolas will forgive. He always has."

"That is... kind of you to say."

"Don't sound so surprised," Thranduil said dryly. "Why should I be unkind? You might think Legolas will never forgive you, but for my part I know – _I_ can never thank you enough."

Thranduil paused, and bit his lip in thought. He nodded to himself, as if coming to a decision. "I would have killed him."

Glorfindel believed Thranduil meant what he said, but it did not make the situation any less unbelievable.

"If I were in yours or Silon's place," Thramduil said slowly, "and an uruk-hai was to make off with my son and he would be tortured and irrecoverable short of a deal that would strike a deathblow to all that is good in Arda... I would have killed him myself."

Glorfindel raked his hands over his hair and face, uncomprehending, unaccepting. The darkness here was so ravenous and unquenchable that even now, only speaking of things in theory, he could feel its claws raking down the skin of his back.

"I speak of this to no one, but I will tell you, to whom much is owed, how we found his mother," Thranduil went on. Glorfindel – who had dared glance against this topic but once before – suddenly found that he did not want Thranduil to say more.

Still, he listened.

"She was captured in battle and taken to Gundabad," Thranduil said dully, looking away from Glorfindel, tilting his head up against the wall and staring at the ceiling above. "The uruk-hai knew who she was. They sent her hair to me to begin a bargain, then her ear. A finger, another. We couldn't give them what they asked and live with ourselves but with every piece of proof of her life, I was losing pieces of my mind. We mounted a desperate rescue and lost many soldiers - only to find first her skin, and then all the rest of her.

"She died in unspeakable agony a day later, on the road home," Thranduil continued. "She did not even know she had been safely retrieved. I know now – I should have had the courage to end her misery sooner, and she should not have been taken alive at all. Legolas had that courage, when he spared his brother a similar fate. And so I tell you in absolute certainty – if I were in your place, I would have killed my own son. There is a good reason for the things that we do here, as abhorrent as they may be to someone like you."

_We make the decisions that we do_, Legolas had told him once, _based on a wealth of experience_.

_I want very much to go home_, Glorfindel thought._ I would like that very much_.

"But this is why my thanks for you is infinite," Thranduil said. "I would have killed him and if you had done the same or let the same happen, I could not have blamed you. But for reasons all your own, you did not and my son is alive. Perhaps the foolish hopes we harbor for better outcomes are not always in vain."

_For reasons all my own..._

"I don't know what hopes I may have harbored," Glorfindel said gruffly, "The world was – is - simply unimaginable without him in it."

Thranduil inhaled and exhaled a careful breath. "He will recover, in time. Thank your gods."

"_Our_ gods," Glorfindel corrected quietly.

Thranduil was noncommittal. "Hm."

"If I may ask - what did Lord Maenor say about his outlook?" Glorfindel asked.

"You may ask anything of me now," Thranduil said before replying, "He will sleep for some time. If Legolas' condition attains more stability in the next week, he will be transferred by litter to the stronghold. While we wait, the road through will be well-secured because he and I will take it – outside of standard practice. We tend to travel apart to preserve the line of succession, but I heard my son had been brutally skewered you see, and it drives one all sorts of mad. I was indulged, as I had been – for the Elvenqueen. Now here we are, and thus for a brief time, we are all hands on a mobilization the likes of which we have not done in centuries. But I get to bring him home."

"It is just as well he is unconscious," Glorfindel said with a tired smile, "He would hate it, all this risk and bother."

He and Legolas had this talk before, about accepting help – _I may need it, I may even deserve it. But I do not want it..._

"It is not solely for his benefit," Thranduil said thoughtfully. "We are a pragmatic people, after all. This initiative, while unsustainable in the long-term, has made our roads the safest they have been in a long time. By our reckoning, our enemies do not know what to make of it, yet. In this narrow window, the Imladrian soldiers you left in the stronghold can travel here under reasonable security, and from here, we are close enough and can give you escort to the High Pass. It is a singular opportunity for you to return home safely at less risk for you and your soldiers, and my own people."

"But without Legolas."

"You will still have valuable intelligence information to share and positive reports to make on a nascent alliance," Thranduil said adding, surprisingly wryly, "By most measures this is successful diplomacy. And I can still furnish you with a few trained messenger pigeons."

_The thrice-damned birds_. Glorfindel knew what – _who_ \- he wanted more. But he also knew Legolas could not travel in his state, and Glorfindel could not wait for him to get better.

For a long moment he genuinely contemplated it, making a request to Thranduil for this departure to be pushed back. A few more days, just so Legolas would wake again to find him still here. Just to give Glorfindel a chance to make a decent goodbye.

But there were clear security implications to the change that he did not want to risk. Time was of the essence – the window of safety they had was slim. He had the welfare of his soldiers and their Mirkwood escorts to consider, and he was also concerned for Legolas and Thranduil. He would not keep them at the settlement longer than necessary if Legolas was stable enough for travel. The sooner he could be transported to the safety of his father's halls, the happier Glorfindel would be.

As a tactician, he knew the timings Thranduil intended had to be followed, even if it meant he might not see Legolas open his eyes.

"I won't see him wake," Glorfindel said softly, almost unintentionally voicing this precise, aching thought.

"You may or you may not," Thranduil said, not unkindly. "Either way he will understand – duties always take precedence."

"I know," Glorfindel said, "He told me as much."

He had agreed, too, when they were talking about what their shared affections meant for their future. Glorfindel just wondered how it came to be that for him, things have changed.

"I on the other hand," Glorfindel said with narrowed, thoughtful eyes, "seem to have lost some of my objectivity."

"You will drive yourself mad worrying for him at this rate," said Thranduil. "He will be well, now. You'll see. Somehow, he is always the one who lives at the end."

The phrasing was too familiar.

Legolas had said it to Glorfindel before, but he did not completely understand what it meant. He did now, after it came from Thranduil's mouth. This was carefully constructed delusion, otherwise the Elvenking would never let his son out the door... just as Glorfindel could no longer bear to let Legolas out of his sight.

_"Imagine if you will, my lord," Legolas had once told him, "just how good I would have to be at my job, to be allowed all the things that I do without my father losing his mind waiting here..."_

_I will lose my mind indeed_, Glorfindel thought_, worrying about you_.

But it was, as he told Legolas before his heart clouded his own judgments - the nature of loving. Love was inextricable from fear, and it makes one wish desperately for the invulnerability of those one cared about.

Glorfindel wanted to partake of at least some of this madness, if possible. Just so he could leave. Just so he could continue on and do his work.

"Your tumbleweed will probably outlive us all," Glorfindel said experimentally, wondering how it would feel to be so falsely confident. His mouth felt dry at the contrived irreverence.

Thranduil stared at him, and Glorfindel knew then, that neither of their delusions ran much deeper than the skin. Thranduil looked away.

_So this is what it takes to leave you be_, Glorfindel thought._ This is what it takes to function nowadays. A bit of willful, managed madness - to preserve some sanity._

"Maybe it's just as well," Glorfindel said into the sudden quiet. "Legolas had explicitly asked me to leave. He cannot stand me."

Thranduil rose easily to his feet, and he stood tall and impervious, Elvenking again, well-armored.

I want you to conjure it, the incarnation of my father that is invulnerable, Legolas had once asked Glorfindel. And here that version of Thranduil was flesh and blood. The private audience, the show of vulnerability, the gratitude - all adroitly obscured. But Thranduil gave him a subtle dry look, barely-there and even then, fleeting.

"Of all things I've heard about the Balrog Slayer," he said with a nonchalant expression, "Imladris' vaunted champion – I never heard he could be cowed by a wood-elf princeling."

Glorfindel stared at him for a long moment. "I would like to sit with him for as long as I can - If you will allow it."

Thranduil gave him a regal, dismissive wave. "I already said – you can ask anything of me."

**# # #**

Glorfindel couldn't sleep to anything else but the rhythm of Legolas' steady pulse beneath the tips of his fingers.

It was music to the ears.

He had tried resting in the humble but at least private quarters that the elves and the Woodmen saved for him, except it was too silent, too empty. And like all empty spaces in the world, it begged to be filled. His mind raced and flooded it with thoughts, thoughts that could only be quieted after he left his room, settled on the chair by Legolas' bed, and let the other's heartbeat ease him into dreaming.

Thranduil indeed let him stay with Legolas – perhaps needed him to stay too, in afterthought. The Elvenking's time was in heavy demand after all, and Thranduil was always either working at a desk near the bed or commandeered to leave and have meetings outside.

_Clever of him_, Glorfindel thought wryly, to have reframed Glorfindel's request to stay as a generously granted favor. Not that Glorfindel minded. Seeing Legolas improve, even as slowly as he did, gave Glorfindel such a quiet, tender delight.

His pulse, his temperature, his coloring, his breathing... everything became better, and as he improved so did Glorfindel's mood, and so did his outlook. Everything seemed dire when Legolas was unwell. Everything was better now that he was better...

_... and so was Legolas to be the lens with which he looked at the world?_ Glorfindel scolded himself half-heartedly.

Inevitably, the time came that his Imladrian soldiers arrived at the settlement – bearing as promised, breeding messenger birds. Thranduil did him one better too: an apprentice of Garavon's was young, unmarried, adventurous and willing to take on a long assignment. He too would be going to Imladris, to look after the birds.

Istor's joy at seeing his Rivendell comrades was unquenchable.

"Sanity at last!" he had said under his breath and to himself when he and Glorfindel watched the new arrivals enter the village. It made him laugh. For a long moment the sound was overloud and hung in the air.

It has been a while.

But life goes on, as it does, as it has to.

**# # #**

The gods, they had a perverse sense of humor.

Or Glorfindel was being punished (_but why?_).

Or Glorfindel was being blessed (_in a way_).

Or Glorfindel was being taught some obscure lesson (_whatever it may be_).

Or Glorfindel was being tested.

Either way – on the night before he and the other Imladrian elves were slated to leave for the High Pass and home, the steady pulse beneath Glorfindel's oversensitive fingers beat faster. In his hypervigilance, he almost shot from his seat by Legolas' bed. His own heart mirrored the frantic rhythm, and he waited breathlessly for other signs of Legolas' long-awaited wakening.

There was none – the pulse he held at the wrist slowed, and the prince's eyes remained closed. Still, Glorfindel knew something significant had changed. Legolas was awake – and rather impressively, increasingly cognizant of his vulnerability.

Like a good soldier he was playing possum, taking stock of his surroundings first and gathering himself. His pulse steadied even before Glorfindel's did.

Glorfindel decided to help him along. "We made it to the settlement of the Woodmen safely. The children have all been restored to their families and are in good health. You have been tended well. Full recovery will take some time, but you are healing."

He did not say – _Silon is still dead_.

He did not need to. Glorfindel watched the younger elf's face carefully. Still with eyes closed, Legolas' jaw clenched, his lips pursed, and he took in a shuddering breath. The tip of his pert nose turned red, and his body trembled.

When Legolas opened his eyes, they were glassy with more than just grave injury and lingering illness. They stared dazedly up at the ceiling and in spite of his best efforts, a few tears still leaked from them, thick and round, going down the sides of his face to his pillow.

Wary of his welcome now that Legolas was not only awake but also more or less aware of his situation, Glorfinsel withdrew his hand from the other elf's. He knew his touch would not be wanted.

To his surprise, Legolas' long, graceful fingers enclosed around his wrist. The physical grip was weak, but it was _shackle – cuff – irons- and - chains_ just the same. He might as well have held Glorfindel's wretched heart in an inescapable, ever-tightening vice.

Glorfindel lifted hopeful eyes to Legolas'.

_Hope._

_I prefer possibility and hope_, he had always told Legolas._ Even now I find... I still can_.

"You..." Legolas asked, breathily.

Glorfindel frowned in confusion, until he realized Legolas was making inquiries about his well-being.

"I am well," Glorfindel said quietly, and he found his own eyes welling at the implications of the question. Its simple kindness and concern, outweighing all the other complications that now lay between them: perceived betrayal, Silon's death, an unknown future.

Legolas licked at his dry lips, and Glorfindel glanced at a nearby glass and pitcher of herbed water. He calculated how he would be able to get it for the patient, without relinquishing Legolas' precious hold.

Legolas swallowed thickly, through an almost certainly parched throat. He coughed, and shut his eyes tightly in pain. A miserable hum exited his mouth as he shifted in pain and tried to curl into himself. The grip on Glorfindel's wrist spasmed, and fell away.

Glorfindel almost jumped for the medicine water.

"This is for the pain," he explained as he tilted the pitcher toward the glass. "You can have some, but try and stay awake. I shall fetch your father. Would a king take offense if I perhaps just, you know – yelled?"

He was nervous and it was a joke – Legolas' cheek hinted at a strained and desperate half-smile, but his face crumpled again and he groaned instead. His hands crawled and clawed over his stomach.

"Don't move, don't try to help," Glorfindel told him as he lifted Legolas carefully but purposefully about the shoulders and neck to help him drink. The body in his hands trembled in misery. He set the prince back down to his pillows, and let him catch his breath.

"I will only be a moment, Legolas-"

"My... _adar_," Legolas said through grit teeth, finally catching up to the implications of what Glorfindel had said earlier. He opened his eyes. "I am... home...?"

"No," Glorfindel replied. "He traveled to you."

Legolas was alarmed and shifted as if to rise, except Glorfindel's steadying arms kept him where he was.

"Not... safe...!"

"Oh it is at the moment, believe me," Glorfindel said easily. "I will call him. He is eager to see you awake-"

"Wait..." Legolas gasped.

Glorfindel did. They both knew there were things they needed to discuss, but they also both knew Legolas' current capacity was severely limited and diminishing quickly. Already his gaze was glazing again, shifting in and out of focus, his mind and body fighting for opposite ends of wakefulness and sleep, lucidity and escape through oblivion.

He stared at Glorfindel unsteadily. His eyes were doing strange things, thoughts and weaknesses racing across his wavering gaze. He was in pain and tiring quickly, but looked to be as desperate as Glorfindel felt for some kind of resolution.

They both held their breaths, but Legolas couldn't do it for long. He coughed again, moaned and curled again, shook again, eyes closed again, was almost absent again.

Glorfindel shot forward as Legolas turned against his side on the edge of his makeshift bed, and he held the younger elf with a bracing hand to his chest and a supportive arm around his shoulder and back; a careful embrace not only wary of the other's injury but uncertain of welcome.

Legolas wordlessly accepted the comfort and leaned into Glorfindel's hold, pressing his head against Glorfindel's neck, huffing out pained, strained breaths on the ancient warlord's collarbone until they settled. His body began to slacken, and Glorfindel knew he would soon be asleep again.

Glorfindel knew also, that real conversation and resolution would not be forthcoming for a long while. And because he had to leave before the sun rose tomorrow, it might not even come for _years_.

The idea made his chest ache. But for all the life of him, he just could not find it in himself to burden Legolas with a goodbye that would force the issue, force them to try and resolve things now.

He looked down upon the younger elf in his arms, whose face was upturned toward his, whose struggling dark-rimmed eyes sought out his own. Legolas knew where he was and why, knew who held him and what problems they had. But there were so many weighty things unsaid between them, and he was clearly past his limits of bearing them.

Glorfindel knew the younger elf could carry none of it in that moment – what had happened to Silon, forgiveness, their contradicting philosophies of life and death, all the work still waiting for them, Glorfindel's love, Glorfindel's impending departure. Legolas could bear none of it – he was already crushed beneath pain and a long recovery. Love affairs were the least of his problems.

_It – I - might not even be in his three foremost priorities_, Glorfindel reflected._ I might not even be in ten_.

But he could wait. And in all that time, he could hope.

Glorfindel held the prince tenderly, and brushed stray strands of hair away from his face. Legolas' stare softened at the touch, and his breathing eased, and he slowly drifted toward sleep.

_I don't need you to be mine_, thought Glorfindel_. I don't need you to forgive me. I don't even need you to love me..._

_...I just need you - alive and well, even in your distant corner of the world. You can be my star in the night._

_My light in the dark_.

_I may not have you in my reach, but you will always shine for me. The light of my life, the torch on my path_.

Legolas sighed in contentment, as if some secret part of him knew he was safe, held in love, and absolutely cherished. Glorfindel smiled down upon him fondly.

"No matter what," Glorfindel murmured at him, "No matter when or where: you will always have my love."

He leaned over the golden head, and placed a kiss upon it.

_Goodbye_.

**TO BE CONCLUDED IN AN EPILOGUE**

'til the next post!


	21. Accounting for a Hundred Years

**_Hell__o__ community!_**

_Thank you so much to all who are still with me on this fic, especially our generous reviewers kind enough to share their time, insights and connection with me. The latter isn= particularly important now, as more and more of our world is plunged into isolation given the virus situation. I was going to post this later, but I will post now, in my own humble effort of trying to keep people at home and amused :)_

**_Some housekeeping:_**_ The Epilogue, shaping up to be at around 50 pages, has my usual 3 Interludes. Only the first is posted below. I am also posting part of my Afterword. I hope you enjoy the reading as much as I enjoy the writing. As always, C&C's are heartily welcome, and Best Wishes and Good Health to everyone at this tough time!_

_Without further ado:_

**# # #**

**Epilogue**

**# # #**

**Interlude 1/3: Accounting for A Hundred Years**

_T.A. 2951, 10 Years After _The Battle of the Five Armies

**# # #**

_Every step brought him closer until he was suddenly, almost simply _there_..._

The breakneck speed of the heavy-footed warhorse and the mad clatter of its hooves against the paved entry into Imladris, had Glorfindel vaunting down balconies and running down the halls in his haste to meet the urgent new arrival.

The Household was not expecting anyone.

But the warhorse was bearing two riders, both wearing weather-worn cloaks. One was unconscious and held by the other in his arms. Behind them was a small contingent of horse-borne Imladrian guards who had apparently been outran by the strangers here – a feat of fine horsemanship, Glorfindel reflected, or a sign of the rider's desperation.

He raised a hand at the guards in peace as they dismounted, armed, while he hurriedly walked to the intruders. He realized quickly who the unconscious person was.

"Estel!" Glorfindel exclaimed in alarm.

"Take him, quick!" the cloaked being holding the _adan _exclaimed breathlessly, and Glorfindel at once raised his arms to receive the injured young man. Estel was a beloved and central figure in Elrond's home, though he hasn't been by much since he left a couple of years ago to chase his fate out in the wilds with the last of the Dunedain.

As Glorfindel reached for Estel and the stranger holding him leaned to gently hand the precious burden down, the hood of the unknown rider's cloak fell to his shoulders – revealing a fine, achingly _familiar _countenance.

Glorfindel recognized him right away. But if the other elf felt the same recognition or the same jarring pang from it, his grim expression revealed nothing.

"Strider was shot with a poisoned arrow on the arm a day or so ago," Legolas said urgently as he dismounted his horse. He swayed but steadied quickly, and Glorfindel suspected they must've been traveling non-stop.

Legolas planted two pieces of rolled parchment atop Estel's chest and against Glorfindel's, who carried him.

"A dispatch from the Rangers on the status of the fight," he explained quickly. "The other is the field healer's notes on Strider's damage and how he has been treated so far. The wound itself is negligible but the toxin is aggressive and unknown to us. Before Strider lost consciousness he indicated that if there was a remedy, Imladris and its lord would have it. Take him to Elrond – hurry."

"Are _you_ well?" Glorfindel asked as he adjusted his grip on Estel, preparing for a run to the Halls of Healing.

"Yes, please just go!"

Glorfindel nodded and shot forward. Behind him, he could hear the wood-elf asking for a fresh horse and commandeering the patrol that had initially meant to capture him for escaping their guard. Legolas wanted them as reinforcements for the Rangers, who were fighting off orcs a day's ride away.

He was going to leave in three minutes, he barked out with utmost princely authority, and anyone who wasn't ready by then would be left behind.

**# # #**

There were rooms deeper into the Halls of Healing set apart from the busy main corridors, where delicate procedures were conducted.

Glorfindel headed straight for one of them with the beloved Estel cradled in his arms. Stunned healers trailed in his wake and immediately proceeded with their examinations after he laid Estel gently upon a bed.

Moments later the master of the household came along himself, having been fetched by someone. Elrond was in the company of his twin sons, and all three set to tending Estel immediately. They worked in concert, needing few quiet words amongst themselves, as if they were performing an old dance.

"If you don't mind, my lord," Elrond murmured to Glorfindel, handing him the letters from Estel's chest while he continued working on his ailing, adopted son.

Glorfindel rattled off the healer's notes first, reading it aloud verbatim. Elrond absorbed the words thoughtfully, barely slowing down as he digested the information. Glorfindel turned to the battle report next. The military missive he was more confident about scanning quickly and summarizing in his own words.

"The Rangers defend a village a day's ride from here," he said. "It's become somewhat of a siege with enemies closing in and cutting off exit or supplies. An elf who had recently joined their company - Greenleaf as they call him – is their best soldier and the one tasked with breaking through the blockade with Strider to bring him here and request aid."

_Greenleaf_, Glorfindel repeated in his mind, as his gaze slid over the letters spelling them on the page. Estel, in his few letters to Imoadris, has written of him before: this mysterious despondent blond who one day came to offer his services and has since become indispensable to them. Glorfindel never for a moment thought it would be Legolas. He never thought anything could part him from the Woodland.

"Kindly see that the request for immediate aid is met," Elrond said distractedly.

"The rest of the letter contains tactical information," Glorfindel said. "I will deal with this situation as you care for Estel."

Elrond's twin sons, Elrohir and Elladan, were exchanging glances in that wordless, conspiring way of theirs. They were torn, Glorfindel knew, by their desire to care for their brother and assist their father, and their need to avenge Estel and unleash their own hungry violence. They weighed where their expertise and responsibilities best lay.

"Stay my sons," Elrond implored them quietly. "I may need your voices to call him home to us."

Glorfindel winced; the situation was that grave. But he had every faith in this family's healing prowess, in Estel's stubborn hardiness, and in all their love for each other. Estel would heed their call, they would bring him back to health, and Glorfindel had his own job to do.

**# # #**

Legolas, with the dozen or so soldiers he had wrangled into sudden service, was long gone by the time Glorfindel and his own squad of well-armed fighters started moving out.

It didn't matter, for Glorfindel found he knew exactly where to go.

He sought out the other elf's _fea_, like an old habit even if it has long gone unrewarded. This day though, he found it aflame, as if it was aching to be seen. It also helped that Legolas physically marked their path forward; there were nicks on a few obliging trees along the way, made by slim, sharp white knives.

**# # #**

The elves rode hard, almost merciless against the horses and against their own bodies. There may be regrets about it later, but they arrived at the besieged village in just the nick of time.

Legolas and his group had already engaged with the enemy, but there was plenty left for Glorfindel and his soldiers. The number of the orcs were startling – times have really changed since the end of the Watchful Peace.

What did not change was Glorfindel's ability to dispatch his enemies efficiently – and the same could be said of Legolas. From the corner of his eye he could see the wood-elf prince fighting in that light, kinetic way of his.

There was a slight change in the technique though, and a very curious one: a slightly heavier touch, some newly-acquired brawn that powered his elegance.

_He really has been spending time with the Dunedain_.

They had a lot to talk about, indeed. One more thing to add to the accounting of a hundred years.

**# # #**

It was a decisive victory for the elves and men.

But in its immediate aftermath, there were few celebrations to be made. Estel's status was uncertain, and the Rangers worried for the young man. There were wounds to tend, bodies to bury. There were enemy corpses to burn, security perimeters to establish and maintain. There were homes to repair, families and soldiers to feed... three days' destruction was at least thirty to rebuild.

Legolas, who was apparently firmly entrenched in the Rangers' company, vanished into all the work. Glorfindel and the Imladrians did their part too and cooperated with the miscellany of tasks, one of which was the night watch.

Glorfindel huddled in his cloak and assumed a post at one of the elven camps set up strategically around the village, watching over it as it finally settled for a night's rest. To have a good vantage point, he kept some distance from the human and elven soldiers either mulling around quietly or getting some sleep. It was a peaceful sight, considering what carnage transpired there just a few hours ago.

His personal peace, though, was quickly disturbed by the whisper-soft arrival of a specter of the past: Legolas.

The last time they saw each other was in 2851.

_A hundred years_, Glorfindel thought,_ the blink of an eye in the life of an elf. Less in the life of the world. And even less than a hundred years? A scant few weeks of friendship and a few cumulative hours of confessed affection._

Was that why Legolas did not seem to have recognized him in Imladris? Glorfindel wondered if he'd been forgotten, and subsequently let himself wonder if that was for the better.

"Are you real?" Legolas asked suddenly, confusing the ancient warlord.

Glorfindel's eyes narrowed at the strange and unexpected line of questioning. The younger elf before him looked exhausted and asleep on his feet, but seemed otherwise unharmed. He sat an arm across from Glorfindel on the ground, knees pressed to his chest and elbows resting on top of them. He clasped his hands together as he pondered Glorfindel with a slightly tilted head and a hard stare.

"Yes..." Glorfindel answered warily, unsure where the conversation was headed. "Last I checked."

Legolas nodded, a grim expression on his face. "I see." He gracefully _unfolded_, and let himself lie stretched across the ground. He sighed in contentment.

"I think of you often," he murmured drowsily in explanation. "I am so weary I can't see straight. It's hard to tell. It could have gone either way."

Glorfindel's heart thundered in his chest, and he ached for the exchange to continue while he knew it – _again_ – had to wait.

"Go to sleep, Legolas," he coaxed the other gently, as if the younger elf needed much encouraging. Legolas was well on his way, but he bucked against the weariness one more time and tried to steady his stubborn, glazing gaze.

"You won't just... leave again this time, will you?"

Glorfindel winced. It was hurtful but fair and also, brutally honest. The _ernil _must have been truly exhausted to let his guard down thus.

"I will be here when you wake – _meleth_."

It was good enough for the prince, who smiled sleepily and quickly chased after oblivion.

**# # #**

He was more in possession of himself come the morning, especially after Glorfinel brought him a bite of Lembas, a cup of thin broth, and a sip of _miruvor_.

"Thank you my lord," Legolas said stiffly, partaking of the nourishment he knew he needed for the long day ahead.

Glorfindel sat with him in their little corner at the edge of camp but he himself did not eat; he was full and functional, and there was still some shortage of provisions while the village's situation was being sorted out.

As Legolas ate quietly, Glorfijdel tried not to revel too much in the long-denied, tender pleasure of watching him do so. They broke bread together many times long ago... it was such a small thing. Easy to neglect in the happening, but intimate in afterthought.

"Have you been with the Rangers all this time?" Glorfindel asked.

Legolas frowned. "All this time?"

"You've been unaccounted for, for a decade," Glorfindel said, keeping the memory of his anguish beneath the surface. "Ever since the Quest of Erebor and the Battle of the Five Armies."

"Is that what they call it nowadays?" Legolas scoffed. "From our end, it was a dwarven disaster that left a pile of _shite_ on my door. I've not had occasion to thank you and your vaunted White Council for that misadventure, by the way."

"The misadventure that prevented a dragon living east of you from aligning with Sauron to your South and Gundabad to your northwest?" Glorfindel pointed out. "The misadventure that effectively stopped our common enemies from hemming in your kingdom, and ultimately banishing the Necromancer from Dol Guldur?"

"Yes," snarled Legolas. "_That_ misadventure. Some word would have been _nice_ between supposed allies. What you sent instead were dwarves that kept their silence save for disrespecting my father and our home, who created a chain of events that led dozens of my people into an untimely death in a distant battlefield. But then again, leaving word is perhaps not your strong suit."

Legolas was also referring to having been left behind injured and unconscious at a Woodmen settlement by the _ellon_ who supposedly loved him, Glorfindel realized. It was a good barb, he conceded. Efficient in hitting two birds with one stone. Maybe even deserved.

_He really is one heck of a marksman_...

Glorfindel sighed. "My personal behavior I will be accountable for. But on behalf of Imladris and the White Council I think my defenses have merit. The chain of events happened mostly independently of us through the machinations of Mithrandir and the dwarves. They also unfolded quickly, and given our limited military assets, there was not much we could do on the battlefield. Our biggest strength lay with the power of our leaders, who eventually headed to Dol Guldur to battle the enemy there. Word was sent to your _adar_, Legolas, through various means. But your kingdom had closed, our messenger birds waylaid by invasive and unseasonal predators that have been increasing in number... I believe by the time our message arrived, Thranduil had already gone to the front. We assembled a troop to assist, but by the time we got there, we were needed only in the healing, cleaning and rebuilding."

"You were there?"

"Yes," Glorfindel said, with a slight tremble in his voice. For he had indeed gone to the so-called Battle of the Five Armies, and been desperate about it. "I was there. I kept hearing your name. They said you were remarkable. But I couldn't – I couldn't _find _you."

And how he had searched. By his body and his soul he had searched. But Legolas' _fea_ had been closed to him since Silon, and it was a light he did not feel until yesterday in the forest, when Legolas wanted to be found and followed.

"You were there," Legolas repeated in a whisper.

"But _you_ were not," Glorfindel said.

"I settled my people as much as I could... stand," Legolas admitted. "And then I left."

"My mind was barely eased when I finally pried a few words out of Thranduil," Glorfindel shared. "He said he had sent you on a mission of utmost secrecy."

"That is kind of him to say," Legolas said quietly. "But _I_ asked to leave. He gave me purpose and direction, otherwise it would have just been... abandonment. One I am ashamed to admit I was almost willing to do."

"I never thought anything could take you from your Woodland," Glorfindel said worriedly. "Especially since the banishment of the so-called Necromancer is giving your home some much needed reprieve."

"I've been drowning in futile sacrifices for a long time I suppose," Legolas said. "Erebor gave me one more blow than I could stand. _Adar_ understood – I needed to fight a different front."

"I am sorry for all that you and your people had to go through," Glorfindel told Legolas sincerely.

"But are you really?" Legolas asked, skeptically. Increasingly snidely. "Are you _really_, my lord? Why should you be, when you are apparently blameless in all of it? Aren't you always? Blameless, that is - for effects directly caused by your actions. Blameless-"

He cut himself off. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He was calmer when he opened them, and he just looked monumentally unhappy.

"_I_ am sorry," Legolas said. "That is... undeserved. An old habit of mine, I'm afraid. I'd gotten so used to believing much of it, you see. Silon..." he winced. "You were right not to have apologized for what happened to him, and I should never have blamed you. I was angry at myself, I think. I know this now. And maybe your people are not... solely... to blame for Erebor either."

"But sometimes anger becomes a habit," Glorfindel murmured in understanding.

Legolas shook his head in disappointment at himself.

"I hope you have also lost it, the anger with yourself," Glorfindel told him. "For that is undeserved too."

Legolas sighed, and it deflated his bitterness. "I would call it more a work-in-progress," he admitted. He paused to gather his thoughts, and Glorfindel gave him the time he needed.

"I will say this though," Legolas went on, "about the time you left me a century ago. You had to leave when you did, I understand that. And the past hundred years have occupied us in each our ends of the world, with much danger to keep us where we were and divide us in between. But the truth is: it would have been trite, but you could have left me a letter." He gave Glorfindel a slight, ironic smile.

"I considered it," Glorfindel confided. "But words failed me. I couldn't ask forgiveness, for I could never be sorry for playing a part in keeping you alive. I could have explained why I was leaving the way that I did, but as a commander I think you would have already understood that. I could have said I love you but you must know that, too. There was nothing to say. But perhaps more than that... I held you. I do not know if anyone's said it. I held you often, and that last night I just couldn't seem to let you go. Not for pen or paper, not for air or a drink of water - not for anything other than the dawn that marked the time I had to go away."

Legolas hand drifted loosely to the side of his head. "I remember nothing of those days," he murmured. "Nothing much, that is. There was pain and darkness, and... and..." he tried to find the words. "I don't know - pinpricks of light."

Glorfindel's heart sped in his chest. He'd come to think of them as little sparks, all the memory and longing he had sent down into the deep well that had become of Legolas' lost soul when he was on the brink of death. Glorfindel had hoped they would reach him, and now he knew that they did.

Legolas shook his head and took a deep breath, ready to move on. "At any rate here we are. None the worse for wear – so far." He chewed his lip in thought. "It could have been worse. It almost certainly will be worse, actually. This recent orc incursion is part of a noticeable pattern. There is a rise in the enemy's capabilities and brazenness. The skirmishes I've been in with Strider and the Rangers have escalated these last few years."

"You've been traveling with Strider that long?" Glorfindel asked, adjusting to the name Legolas called Estel by. But Legolas did not miss the omission.

"A few years," Legolas answered vaguely. "Long enough to know he is not like other men. Long enough to know he was raised amongst elves in Imladris. You called him Estel, when you saw him. I've heard others call him this on occasion too. Why?"

_He does not know_, Glorfindel thought.

"What importance does that hold?" Glorfindel asked back carefully.

"_Aran-nin_ told me he could be a great man one day," Legolas answered. "When he sent me to seek out Strider, he told me I should find out his real name for myself."

Glorfindel's brows rose, and marveled at Thranduil's perception - either he had some foreboding, or an impressive intelligence network. He wouldn't put either beyond the formidable Elvenking.

"Estel, is it?" Legolas said thoughtfully. "'Hope.' Interesting."

Glorfindel wanted to reveal who Strider really was, but that wasn't his story to tell.

"It's fitting," Legolas said with grim satisfaction. "You cannot know what he's come to mean to me."

Glorfindel tilted his head at Legolas inquiringly. Inextricably, he wondered if he had been replaced, but he did not feel it was his place to push.

"Does he know who _you_ are?" he asked instead.

The elven prince shrugged. "He goes by identities of his own choosing and so do I. The Rangers know me by 'Greenleaf.' Estel is clever though, and had grown up among the _eldar. _It is possible he has come to his own determinations. But if he has, he is keeping them to himself. It does not make us less of friends."

He stared off into the distance longingly.

"He is still alive," Glorfindel promised Legolas. He knew, for Estel was in sight of his _fea_. He reached out to the _adan_ in spirit.

"I know," Legolas said with a weighty exhale. "He promised me, and he's never let me down before."

Glorfindel gave him a smile, but his senses were still so stretched out that a change in the wind struck him like a bolt of lightning hitting a tree and splitting it half.

He heard himself cry out, and his clawed hands went to his head at the staggering blow. Suddenly the air felt unbearably thick, unbreathable. He gasped and heaved it in hungrily nonetheless, taking in its cloying foulness, because there was nothing else. He breathed in ash and was blinded by magnificent flame, and then the light was shut in the rest of the world save for an unholy fire borne by a dark tower.

He came to himself lying on his back on the ground, and somehow between one moment and another, he was waking up to a new and unwelcome existence.

The song changed.

It had become – suddenly, jarringly - discordant. Like a taut string had snapped in the orchestra but the off-key tone played on, sounding wrong and vaguely, increasingly malevolent.

He opened his eyes to find Legolas' worried face hovering inches from his own.

"One more like that, _please_," he was saying, and his voice was muffled, the sight of him tunneling. "_Breathe_."

Glorfindel did as he was bid, and he forced his aching chest to rise and fall, rise and fall. Every breath was dizzied and hard-won, but his head and senses duly started to clear.

A visibly relieved Legolas backed away, but only slightly. He started palpating Glorfindel's body, looking for injury.

"Did you get hurt in the fight?" he asked urgently. "Come now, my lord – does anything hurt? Does anything feel wrong?"

_Everything _ felt – and was – wrong. Glorfindel shivered, which Legolas caught. He did not know what ailed the older elf, but this was a problem he could remedy. He hurriedly divested himself of his cloaks, and blanketed Glorfindel with it.

"I will fetch a healer – "

"No..." Glorfindel finally managed to speak, in a weak, hoarse voice but a forceful tone. He shifted to rise, but Legolas kept a firm hand over his chest.

"This isn't wise..."

But Glorfindel still had to do it. Sighing, Legolas helped him instead, and kept Glorfindel held in his arms while the older elf steadied. Legolas fussed with the cloak, and rubbed at Glorfindel's arms to infuse him with warmth.

"What ails you?" he asked earnestly, peering at the ancient warlord's face. "How can I help?"

Glorfindel looked blearily up at the morning sky. Everything looked the same, and yet everything had changed. He knew this day would come. Everyone in the White Council did. He just did not think it would come today, or it would feel this way. The air was so, so sickeningly thick.

"Mount Doom is stirred alive," Glorfindel murmured of the visions – either gods-given or sensed by his soul in the suddenly altered world – that had assailed him. "I see fire... a dark tower rising. And cloaked black riders taking to the skies at the impatient command of a master who has finally awakened."

Legolas' grip jerked tightly at Glorfindel's arms, and the older elf turned to him sadly. They both knew Glorfindel spoke of the Nazgul.

"You need to return home, _ernil_," he told Legolas. "They come I think, for the fortress that was lost to them. Your people have desperate need of you again. I am sorry you only had ten years in the wilds to find some solace."

Legolas shook his head at Glorfindel in confusion and disbelief. "I don't understand..."

"I think the Dark Lord has finally declared himself," Glorfindel tried to explain. "I think plans long brewing are coming to fruition. You noted this yourself – the enemy has increased in courage and capacity. They are ready, and we must be too. You must go home." He winced, as he removed Legolas' cloak from his body and returned it to the archer.

"I must go, too. I will be needed in Imladris. Elrond would have felt that more."

"But you are unwell-"

"Then help me," Glorfindel grunted and Legolas, long sharing in his understanding of the primacy of duty, helped him to his feet. He slung one of Glorfindel's arms over his shoulders to aid in the walking. Together, they headed toward the other members of their company.

"I hesitate to leave the Rangers with Strider gone and the men at this state so soon after a battle," Legolas said under his breath as they walked.

Every assisted step made Glorfindel steadier, and he carried more and more of his weight. But he kept Legolas' guide – and gentle proximity.

"They are capable," Glorfindel said with certainty. "And we are both needed elsewhere."

They walked quietly, and it was Legolas who broke it with a bewildered murmur. "Present tense."

"Hm?"

"You had said it, of love."

"I haven't changed," Glorfindel said, plainly. He did not even broach the topic, because for him it was simply assumed, a constant. This was the lens by which he lived his world. It lined everything. He did not need to say it, anymore than he needed to remind himself to breathe.

_I love you_, and it was just a consequence – and necessity - of living.

Their return to proper camp was spotted, and Glorfindel half-carried by Legolas was a startling enough sight that his soldiers stalked toward them quickly. Their time together was coming to an end.

Legolas' grip on Glorfindel tightened, and Glorfindel felt his own hold doing the same. The world was dealing them another hand of goodbye, for another indefinite period of time.

_I can't seem to let you go. Not for pen or paper, not for air or a drink of water, not for anything other than the dawn that marks the time I have to go away_...

"No matter what," Legolas told him quickly, "No matter when or where: you will always have my love."

He released a startled Glorfindel to his own people, with the exact words Glorfindel had used to release _him_ before...

... unknowingly remembering and now echoing, the tender sentiment of this pinprick of light.

**# # #**

**INTERLUDE 2, set in Rivendell around the Council of Elrond, WILL BE POSTED IN A FEW DAYS.** Stay at home and stay safe, friends!

**In the meantime, ****AN AFTERWORD ON THE TIMELINES**

How does _Your Light in the Dark_ fit in with the events of the books and movies?

I am kind of loose on this because I am hardly an expert on canon, and sometimes I prefer vagueness because sometimes the more you say the more you're prone to error. But some grounding doesn't just make the fic feel more organic, it is also inspiring for me to read and research. So for the curious, these are the few canon details that I kept in my head as I wrote:

(1) **Glorfindel's return** to Middle Earth around the Second Age

(2) **The establishment of Dol Guldur** by "The Necromancer" / Sauron sometime after Third Age 1000. This marks the beginning of the darkening of Eryn Galen, and the diminishing of their territory such that they had to move ever northwards.

(3) The formation of **the White Council** in TA 2463, and their conflicting views on how to deal with The Necromancer in Dol Guldur in TA 2851. This became the impetus for me to send Glorfindel to Mirkwood in _Your Light in the Dark_. What he discovered from Thranduil's kingdom was not conclusive though, and we return to canon into TA 2941, when the White Council finally went after the Necromancer in the old fortress while everyone else was busy in and around the Quest of Erebor.

(4) **In movie canon**, the _Battle of the Five Armies _ends with Legolas' departure and seeking out "Strider" and the Dunedain. I have no concrete position on Aragorn's precise age and accomplishments at this time (a sore issue for some fans who note that going by Aragorn's book birth year he would have just been a child). I also have no concrete position on when precisely Legolas locates and joins them... that is why I will be deliberately vague on this hahaha.

Personally though, I reconcile the seeming contradictions this way: maybe as a child "Estel" was allowed to ride with the Rangers on occasion, for his training and to keep touch with that side of his lineage. I imagine he must have had occasion to show some valor even as a young boy (not unheard of), or at the very least, potential. Thranduil's intelligence network must have picked up some chatter, enough that he could send Legolas there. I like thinking Legolas meets Aragorn a bit older though, like if Legolas took his time searching and ended up meeting Aragorn in his mid-teens.

(5) This gives them a few years to bond before the epilogue of _Your Light in The Dark_, set in** TA 2951**, a very eventful year. In my fic, Legolas brings an injured Strider back to Imladris. This gives an opportunity for canon events that occurred the same year – Estel's real identity is revealed to him and he meets Arwen, and then he goes to the Rangers to be their Chieftain in the wild. This aligns with my fic, because where he was just riding with them before, he can return as their leader.

TA 2951 is also when Sauron declares himself openly again, and when he sends Nazgul to retake Dol Guldur. These two canon events sunder Glorfindel and Legolas in my fic: Glorfindel is needed back at work in Imladris and for the White Council. Legolas on the other hand is needed back home in Mirkwood to defend again against the re-emergent Dol Guldur. This is also why he wasn't with Aragorn and the Rangers leading up to the events of _The Fellowship of the Ring_, and why he was back in Mirkwood by the time Gollum was left with them.

Whew! I don't even know if that makes sense to anyone else :)

Anyway, thank you for your time and 'til the next post!


	22. Strangers, and Old Friends

_**Hello community!**_

_Anyone up for a long one? :)_

_Thank you to everyone who is still with me on this, especially our kind reviewers. You are valued beyond measure! As before, I am posting piecemeal whenever I can, to do a small part in keeping people amused at home. In these trying times, please **stay home** (if you can),** stay safe and stay kind** :) Stay connected if you can too, and drop me a line whether it is about this fic or if you have other concerns :) _

**_Some housekeeping: _**_The Epilogue is getting longer and longer but is still at 3 interludes lol. Below is **Interlude #2**. Part of my usual **Afterword **will be posted after it too. Last time I tackled the Timeline, this time there will be notes on Characterizations and Themes._

_I hope you enjoy the reading as much as I enjoy the writing, and as always, constructive C&C's are not just welcome but genuinely cherished. Best Wishes and Good Health to everyone! _

_And so without further ado:_

**# # #**

**Epilogue**

**# # #**

**Interlude 2/3: Strangers, and Old Friends**

_T.A. 3018 in Rivendell, After _The Council of Elrond

**# # #**

_Every step brought him closer until he was suddenly, almost simply _there_..._

_Strangers from distant lands and friends of old_ have all descended upon the House of Elrond. They were brought together by providence, each one bearing a piece of the puzzle that depicted either their collective end, or ultimate victory over Sauron.

They were still putting it together.

Glorfindel, like all the most senior members of the Household, had been summoned posthaste to sit for the Council which included, to his great surprise, the fair countenance of a cherished one he had not seen in half a century.

Legolas of the Woodland Realm.

He and a handful of Mirkwood elves had, for a reason that would be known later, made the perilous journey to Imladris. They caught each other's eye immediately, even in a crowded hall. They drifted toward each other across that stretch of strangers' sea, navigating around the swells and currents of people who have somehow become nothing but shadows.

They settled beside each other, shoulders brushing.

"Are you real?" Glorfindel murmured at the other, this time. It echoed Legolas' question of their recent past, but gave no voice to the reason behind the tender inquiry: _I think of you often_.

For Glorfindel had. He imagined Legolas in just these precise settings, beside him. Glorfindel's borrowed home was magnificent too, and too often he had dreamed of sharing it with the distant, beloved _ernil_.

"Last I checked," Legolas murmured back with a slightly jaunty, tender smile. But the levity was fleeting. He had a strained look about him that Glorfindel recognized easily: Rossenith's potion at the edges of its remaining effectivity.

"I can smell blood on you, Legolas..."

The younger elf gave him that princely, dismissive wave. "It will hold," he said with certainty. "There are more immediate concerns."

Elrond called for the Council to begin. They parted, and both sat in their respective designated places, each amongst their own people. All too quickly, the reason why they were all there unfolded before them.

Legolas, for his part, came bearing ill news: the escape of the wretched, tormented creature now known as Gollum. They all bemoaned this loss and all that it implied for the evil in their midst, Aragorn most of all: "_How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?_"

It was a hasty condemnation, and Legolas had been rightly distressed by it. The more he said though, it was clear to everyone that the elves of Mirkwood had paid handsomely for accepting Aragorn and Gandalf's charge of holding Gollum their prisoner.

They were still paying for it, as far as Glorfindel could tell. Legolas' reaction to Estel's words had been open and passionate, with little trace of the princely reserve Glorfindel knew him for. The glacial blue eyes also held a kind of cobbled restraint to them... and Glorfindel could tell Rossenith's potion was barely powering him through the Council.

They all came to a collective conclusion on the best course of action: the destruction of the One Ring where it was forged, to be borne by the Ringbearer, Frodo, with a very few, yet-unknown cast of comrades. The composition of this group would require further thought and deliberation, though Glorfindel grimly expected he would be a part of it.

Before any move could be made from Rivendell however, scouting parties had to be sent out on all possible routes to Mt. Doom. Planning for this required a smaller party of tacticians, and Elrond dismissed the Council and set a later meeting over the matter with a more intimate group.

"I would like to offer the services of myself and my soldiers in this endeavor," Legolas said, quickly coming over to Elrond upon the conclusion of the Council . "Certain areas in the northeast are our expertise, and with our recent arrival our observations of the road are the most timely."

"I was hoping you would _ernil-nin_," Elrond said with a small bow. "Thank you. But I would see you and your men looked after first. You've just arrived, and from what I can surmise – it was rough going."

Legolas set his jaws and pressed his lips together in annoyance, and Glorfindel saw it in his eyes – indignation, impatience, urgency, and profound dissatisfaction with the slower progression of things here after his harried journey. He took a deep breath and began, testily-

"With all due respect, my lord-"

"Legolas."

It was Estel, who appeared at Legolas' side. He looked contrite, which Glorfindel knew from experience raising the _adan_ in Imladris that he had realized the undeserved harshness of his words and was now going to be _irrepressibly _repentant. Legolas, who glared at Estel and rolled his eyes up to the heavens in fond exasperation, apparently knew it too.

"I will see it done _adar_," Aragorn told Elrond. He took Legolas assuredly by the elbow and steered him away, in a forceful familiarity the wood-elf somehow not only allowed, but found huffing humor in.

"I can smell the blood on you, foolish wood-elf," Estel reprimanded him too – echoing what Glorfindel had said earlier. Unlike Glorfindel though, he was not dismissed and he was bold enough to be more irreverent and intrusive. "A moment of proper tending will clear your mind and make you more effective. You seem well enough, but just so I'd know to steer you either to guest quarters or the healing halls, would you at least tell me what you have done with yourself?"

Legolas laughed, albeit wearily. But his mad eyes softened, warmed, crinkled at the sides. "Rooms, if you please, _mellon-nin_. You would know to fix me best, I suppose."

Glorfindel watched them walk away.

_"__You cannot know what he's come to mean to me," _Legolas had told him once, of Estel. Glorfindel did not know what it meant then or now. What he did know was that love could be such a capricious force. It made him feel mighty, as if he could do anything for the younger elf who claimed his heart. But at the same time it also made him feel helpless against the objectively small... for wasn't _jealousy_ so wretchedly petty, looming larger than it deserved, compared to all the danger upon them?

Glorfindel sighed, and wondered if he had perhaps already been replaced.

"Damn it all," muttered Legolas suddenly, and Glorfindel stepped their way, for though he could only watch their backs with his view from behind, he saw the wood-elf raise his hands and his fingers were bloodstained.

"Legolas-!" Aragorn barked at him, biting back a scolding in favor of stopping them both in their tracks and looking for the source of the bleeding. Legolas swatted at him impatiently.

"It's fine it's old," Legolas said quickly, "I just didn't realize... I hope I didn't make a mess-"

"Lord Glorfindel," Elrond called for him to join a small party of the Household's senior-most elves.

He hesitated. But Estel seemed to have things well in order and he was needed again, and so he came toward Elrond.

He worried though he shouldn't have - Estel put the Woodland Prince promptly back in working order and elf and man were both present and participative at the tactical meetings that followed Council.

_The hands of the King_, Glorfindel recalled,_ were indeed the hands of a healer_.

As for the heart of a prince... who knew what in all of Arda went on in there, and whoever owned it now.

**# # #**

Once resolved, all who were invested in the conclusions of the Council of Elrond decided to move quickly and decisively. The night was spent in rest and preparation, and the dawn marked the time they had to leave for scouting.

The two golden elves were objectively the best fighters of their militarily active kin. This was why they had to be on separate troops for the scouting missions that would set out from Rivendell in various directions, with the goal of plotting the best route for the Ringebearer and his yet-unknown Fellowship to go to Mordor.

Glorfindel concluded his affairs early, and headed for his rooms. As he walked down the winding residence halls of Imladris, he stretched his otherworldly senses and opened his soul out to Legolas' – wherever the wood-elf was. Glorfindel unobtrusively welcomed him through, if he so desired.

_It was like beginning a familiar tune low on the breath and waiting for someone to join in and make it a duet..._

Just as he had done before, _Legolas' sweet strains followed as hoped_.

The quiet hum of their old song, made and learned and remade together long ago beneath the eaves of Eryn Galen, first followed Glorfindel as he walked. It dogged his steps and then overtook him, and he could only scramble to follow it. Suddenly his heart knew the way, and his feet brought him there – the intricate double doors that led to Legolas' princely quarters.

It was unlocked and he let himself in.

All the balcony doors and wide windows were thrown open, letting in the moonlight, letting in the sound of waterfalls, letting in the soft bite of the coming winter, letting in the smell of autumn leaves, letting in the cool evening breeze. The latter stirred at the gossamer curtains, and they cast ghostly shadows about the room.

From their light billowing folds, _that wild child of the dark forest pounced_, and Glorfindel breathlessly wondered if wood-elf princes ever came onto anyone with any modicum of sanity, just before his world spiraled and the ground fell beneath him.

Suddenly his back was to the bed, and there was an insistent mouth over his lips –_open from the very moment they touched_, and now biting too... eventually drawing blood. At the salt of it on his tongue, Glorfindel thought – _by the gods_, he had well over a century of pent-up, hungry longing too.

His fingers tensed and curled to claws.

He grabbed Legolas at the nape and pulled him closer. The golden tresses tangled in Glorfindel'a digits, and he knew he had pulled at hair because the elf straddling him released a soft yelp and a huffing laugh. Glorfindel swallowed it, and they kissed smiling.

_Legolas was incendiary, and Glorfindel was on fire_...

When the night deepened, they said good night and parted.

When the dawn came and they met in Imladris' grounds, they greeted each other good morning.

It was almost simple.

"You keep flitting in and out of my life," Legolas told the older elf, quietly and face nonchalant as they checked their provisions and weaponry at the quartermaster's office.

The two elves were surrounded by similarly occupied comrades, and some not-so-occupied ones who pretended busyness to be in their proximity and not-so-discreetly watch them.

"I could say the same of you," Glorfindel murmured. "Thankfully you've some similarity with Garavon's birds."

"Evasive? Fluffy? Enjoys fu-"

"You'll know your way back to me," Glorfindel told him fervently, setting aside the humor.

Legolas' lips curved into a slow, indulgent, generous smile. It was a rare but familiar expression, one Glorfindel had only seen benevolently granted upon a view of Eryn Galen not so long ago.

Now bestowed upon Glorfindel, he felt as expansive and precious as the Woodland Legolas loved, the land the prince would kill, die – and hopefully – _live_ for.

**# # #**

Legolas beat him back to Imladris when they returned weeks later.

Glorfindel arrived after his company's own scouting route, and he was delighted to hear the wood-elf had already been safely back for a few days by then. He sought Elrond first to debrief with though, only to be told the Lord of Imladris and the Prince of Mirkwood were in the same place: the training grounds.

He stalked straight for it, not even bothering to divest himself of his traveling clothes and gear. That Legolas would be there was no surprise. Elrond, on the other hand, was a rarer sight lately owing to his other more pressing duties.

Once there, Glorfindel found what he could only describe as an exhibition. A loose circle of spectators and undoubtedly bettors making wagers on the outcome, surrounded two combatants on dulled sparring swords. A good number of the spectators were bruised and bloodied soldiers, apparently having had their turn and lost. They cheered and jeered mostly good-naturedly at each other.

Legolas was in the center of it all, and Glorfindel felt his heart swell with pride for the prince's obvious, almost easy prowess. It was a warm feeling, like basking in afterglow, or the nimbus of having been first to see it, and thus owning it somehow.

Legolas was truly a wonder to watch in combat. Not for his exceptional skill, as abundant as they were – a lot of the eldar had that and some were even technically better than he. But he had something rarer; dynamism and creativity. The late Silon had said it best – Legolas had occasional recklessness and fallibility, but quick correction and innovation.

_"__The full breadth of what he is capable of is stifled in group formations," Silon had said with reverence, "You see, he does not seek control of the environment, he controls only himself. He is...a force of nature..."_

Glorfindel took a deep breath, and sent a quiet prayer up in remembrance of the poor, besotted warrior who'd lost his life so tragically for Legolas. He focused on the fight instead of lingering on this old, recurring ache.

Space was made for Glorfindel as he walked closer to the action, and he settled in beside Elrond, who watched Legolas fight with such keen interest he barely spared Glorfindel a nod.

The Woodland Prince, Glorfindel noted, was roughed up – this was obviously not his first match. But his superiority was clear, and by the slight, _blink-and-you'll miss-it_ sidelong glance and that lip-quirk of a smile he threw Glorfindel's way, it was apparent when he started playing with his increasingly frustrated foe to give the cherished new arrival a bit of a show.

Glorfindel crossed his arms over his chest, and shook his head at the prince with amusement. Elrond sensed it too, and he opened his hands up at the prince as if to urge him to get on with things.

As if it were so easy, Legolas did as he was bid – two moves, one strike, the blink of an eye – and his opponent's sword was tossed to the air. Legolas vaulted up and snatched it, landing on the ground not only with all the weapons, but with a flourish.

The spectators cheered and so did Glorfindel, albeit more quietly and ending abruptly... for Elrond beside him looked pensive.

"A fine showing, Thranduilion!" Elrond proclaimed, "No one's toppled you yet!"

Glorfindel realized then why the elf-lord would be so intense in his observations of Legolas: Elrond was determining the makeup of companions to send with Frodo Baggins into Mordor, and someone of Legolas' skill was bound to catch his eye. Of all the Noldorin luminaries in Rivendell, Legolas of the Woodland Realm could be sent toward Mt. Doom.

Glorfindel couldn't quite bear the thought of it.

"I try my best so that it wouldn't come to that," Legolas said wryly – pointedly at Glorfindel – who was thus reminded of another training ground and a different duel, a lifetime ago in the Mirkwood. His throat felt dry, and he knew what he had to do.

Because of their prowess, it stood to reason that any wartime mobilization would separated him from Legolas, to spread out their skills. Their most recent, separate scouting missions exemplified that. It meant that almost certainly, only one of them would be sent with the Ringbearer to Mordor... and Glorfindel did not want it to be Legolas.

If he wanted to be picked for the Fellowship instead, he would have to beat the Woodland Prince in fighting.

_Soundly._

"I am up to the challenge," Glorfindel said suddenly, with certainty. Because he was an exemplary warrior, yes. But perhaps the greater reason was that he also felt a certain desperation.

Heads swiveled Glorfindel's way.

"Well?" he asked Legolas, whose head tilted at him thoughtfully. The _ernil's_ elegant brows furrowed for a moment, for he was uncertain as to Glorfindel's sudden seriousness.

Legolas glanced at Elrond, prompting Glorfindel to do the same. The head of the House's eyes were narrowed. Around them, Imladrians and a few Mirkwood soldiers held their breaths in anticipation.

"I confess this is something I would like to see for myself," Elrond said tentatively. "If the _ernil_ is up to it, after defeating so many foes already."

Legolas' lip turned up in a wry smile. "My Lord Glorfindel is just arrived and must be weary himself. Fair game, I would say. This might be a rare chance at winning over him."

Glorfindel scoffed, "Don't play me for a fool now, _hir-nin_."

Legolas' eyes turned steely. "Shall we turn to our weapons of choice then?"

"Oh by all means," Glorfindel said dryly, "Let's keep it friendly."

Legolas grinned. His eyes were still hesitant, as if he wondered why Glorfindel seemed mad – Glorfindel wondered at it, himself. But crossing swords for the first time was something they've never done before, and the outcome was intriguing to them both.

One of Legolas' soldiers appeared with his twin white knives, while Glorfindel removed his traveler's wares and drew out his trusted sword. The elves around them murmured excitedly, and wagers started being thrown around.

"You're not planning on holding back, are you?" Legolas asked.

"You know I won't."

"Good," Legolas said with satisfaction. "Neither will I."

_I will beat you_, Glorfindel thought, _And I will hurt you if I have to. If it means I can spare you from that trip to Mt. Doom, I will do it. But if you are better than me, Legolas, show me now and win. _

_For the sake of my heart, win. _

_I need to see it. _

_I need to see with my own eyes you are the best, and ready, and able to survive what is to come._

_I want you to conjure it, the incarnation of you that is invulnerable._

It was a self-delusion Glorfindel was aware of, for hadn't he dissuaded Legolas from it in that long past duel in Mirkwood, when Legolas wanted to see how good his father was in a fight?

_No one is invulnerable_, Glorfindel had told Legolas then, _You will always worry for him, just as he does for you no matter your prowess. That is... that is just the nature of loving_.

Glorfindel decided he would ignore his own advice.

"First blood wins?" Glorfindel asked faux-mildly, for he felt very much on edge. The two golden elves started circling each other warily.

Legolas shook his head. "Too easy."

Glorfindel had to agree. Nothing fired him up quite like someone sneaking a hit on him, and he had a feeling Legolas was the same.

"No disarming either," Legolas said, "and no surrender."

It meant this fight could go on without weapons and into fists.

"First to three simulated fatal wounds then," Glorfindel said. "You should be familiar with that. Neck, heart, gut. No holds barred."

Legolas nodded in satisfaction. As the game went in Mirkwood, the winner would be whoever it was between the two fighters who could first complete three fake strikes to the said body parts.

The crowd of spectators around them thickened, and from them, a huffing Estel emerged, elbowing with his adopted twin brothers for a view. They have apparently just come from their own missions, too.

"I will officiate!" Elladan volunteered, and he was duly motioned to do so by his father. "If you are ready, my lords?" he asked the two golden warriors.

Both gave him a solemn nod.

"Have at it then!" he declared, wisely backing away.

**# # #**

The Woodland Prince wasn't like his father, the sublime, technically flawless Thranduil, whose every move was efficient. Legolas was more kinetic, sometimes wasteful of energy – but good gods he was _fast_, and he meant what he said when he decided first blood would be too easy.

He came at Glorfindel in a seemingly reckless, full-speed frontal assault. Glorfindel blocked, and Legolas twisted one of his white knives with the other's sword at a lock, before sacrificing it at a release and summersaulting over the other warrior's head to land behind him.

"Neck!" Legolas proclaimed victoriously, and Glorfindel felt the cold, sharp tip of the white knife at his nape. One small thrust and it would have gone through.

"Neck!" Elladan acknowledged.

Legolas backed away. In respectful acceptance of his initial defeat, Glorfindel picked up the knife Legolas had dropped and handed it back to him hilt-first. Legolas accepted it with a grim nod, and they began again.

This time, Glorfindel took the offense. Legolas' expertise was speed and movement – Glorfindel knew he wouldn't win there. He focused on his advantage instead of playing on Legolas' terms. He and his weapon were stronger and heavier.

He struck from above, swinging his sword down. Legolas blocked just as he was expected to, crossing his knives over his head. Their blades met with a resounding clang, and they pushed against each other. Legolas expected a hard press because of Glorfindel's bulk and weapon, so Glorfindel immediately softened his assault contrary to expectation. Legolas' committed pushback sent his knives upward with the sudden lack of pressure, opening up his chest for Glorfindel to attack.

The ancient warlord duly took advantage, thrusting his sword from the bottom upwards, such that the tip of his sword ended pressed against Legolas' chest, angled up toward his heart.

"Heart!" Glorfindel exclaimed.

"Heart!" confirmed Elladan.

The two golden elves stepped away from each other for a beat, before promptly rushing at one another. Their blades sang, and sent shafts of light reflecting everywhere. It was good swordplay, but Glorfindel had a specific motivation the other elf perhaps did not have.

_I will beat you._

_I will hurt you if I have to._

He gave Legolas a feint, and the younger elf spun to adjust. With a single grip strong enough to hold a powerful sword, Glorfindel freed his less dominant hand and he viciously grabbed at Legolas' long hair as the archer sped past. Glorfindel twisted the tresses in his fist and wrist, mercilessly. Legolas' head jerked back, and Glorfindel heard gasps around them when he pulled Legolas to the ground headfirst by the hair, slamming him to his back.

Glorfindel straddled him and thought he had the victory, but he should never have doubted Legolas' resolve. The Mirkwood soldier actually used one of his knives to _cut_ at his own hair stuck in Glorfindel's grip, trimming close enough to make Glorfindel's fingers bleed. He freed himself, while Glorfindel had one hand tangled in the shorn golden strands.

Legolas bucked and reversed the straddle, twisting and pressing Glorfindel to his face and chest on the ground. He slammed the hilt of one of his knives against Glorfindel's sword hand once, twice, and then a third perhaps unnecessary hit – for he could play mean too. Glorfindel's grip loosened, and Legolas reached to throw the sword away.

The move shifted his balance on Glorfindel's back, and in such close quarters, Glorfindel's sturdier built was hard to contain and easy to lose with the slightest imbalance.

The older elf dazed him with a backward head hit, and from there he was easy to lift not merely off of Glorfindel's back, but be thrown off of his feet. Legolas landed, bewildered and breathless on his back, and Glorfindel grabbed his sword and stalked toward him, meaning to strike before the younger elf could get his bearings.

He raised his sword and sent it down in a vicious thrust, and he kept it descending. The Mirkwood elf looked up at him unflinching, not even blinking when the gleaming tip of the weapon sank to the ground beside Legolas' neck with such force it whipped at some of the hair splayed about his shoulders.

"Neck!" Glorfindel barked.

It was taking Elladan a beat to acknowledge it though, and Glorfindel raised his head to see him hesitate. Elrondion was looking toward his father and brothers. Elrohir looked hesitant too. Everyone was beginning to sense there was more to this match than met the eye.

For Glorfindel, the stakes were clear. Spectators were betting only on sporting outcomes. Glorfindel on the other hand, was playing to win because he had no plans of betting on winning the War with Legolas' life.

_I will beat you._

_I will hurt you if I have to._

_As long as it is me on the road to Mordor, and not you_.

Strangely though, as increasingly alarmed as everyone was becoming, Aragorn and Elrond looked sternly resolved to see things through to the end. They both, surprisingly identically, jerked their heads at Elladan to continue.

"Neck," Elladan declared.

"Try not to kill each other!" Elrohir yelled out in an effort to defuse the thick tension rising from the match, courting uneasy laughter.

Legolas hopped to his feet and shook his head to clear it. His lips were bleeding and he spat red liquid out on the ground. Glorfindel did not derive much victory from it – he was pretty sure the wood-elf broke skin on his left knuckle, not to mention a finger or two from his dominant arm which would have consequences on his fighting.

The wood-elf knew it too – he started specifically targeting Glorfindel's right side, now much harder to defend. With a flurry of deft strikes and dizzying moves, Legolas locked down a tying point.

"Gut!" he exclaimed, breathlessly for he had moved much and catching a warrior like Glorfindel deep into the side did not come easy.

"Gut!" Elladan acknowledged.

"Now all I have to do is get your heart," Legolas murmured, for everyone's ears except Glorfindel was the only one who knew he did not mean it within the context of the game.

It hurt very, very sweetly.

And it moved Glorfindel into a more desperate victory.

He assaulted Legolas quickly, so as not to give him any chance to recover his breath. The younger elf fought valiantly, but Glorfindel was peerless in many ways. He disarmed Legolas, sending the twin white knives aside one, then the other, with his forceful blows.

Even without weapons though, Legolas was clever and relentless. He went to kicks and fists, and he had one ace: Glorfindel, who had previously secured hits to his heart and neck, had to catch him at the gut to win. He protected his middle with singular determination.

They bloodied each other, even while everyone knew at that point it would only be a matter of time before Glorfindel won.

"Stand down, _ernil_!" not a few elves urged the prince respectfully and earnestly, without jest or ridicule. He had bested most of them, after all. But he bared his teeth at them and valiantly – _foolishly_? - pressed on.

It was Elladan who finally called an end to the bloodbath and as officiant of the match, Legolas and Glorfindel had the ingrained warrior's discipline to listen to him.

"Enough!" he called out. "Enough, my lords. Let's leave some of it for the orc, eh?"

He looked at his father grimly, jaw twitching in restraint of censure. But even if he said nothing directly, it was clear to all who were there that Elrondion was displeased with his father for letting the fight go on so long.

"I think we've all been sufficiently _entertained_," he said. "Damn good show, Thranduilion – but Glorfindel wins."

The declaration was met by cheering for the victor, but also with respectful applause for the young warrior who presented him with such a challenge.

The two warriors shook hands, and their grips were firm and lingered, before they were cheerfully separated and spirited away by their respective comrades.

**# # #**

A few hours later, Elrond – for reasons all his own – declared that Legolas Greenleaf would be the one to join the Fellowship of the Ring on behalf of the elves.

Glotfindel had defeated Legolas soundly and proven _he _was the better fighter. Yet why was it that he would be the one to stay?

He bit his tongue at the public announcement, but Glorfindel wouldn't let this decision pass without challenge.

**# # #**

They had a strange relationship, the Lords Glorfindel of Gondolin, and Elrond of Rivendell.

On the one hand, Glorfindel: the golden-haired ancient hero born in the Years of the Trees. Descended from princes, he had died in noble glory and was duly reimbodied and beloved by the gods. Returned to Arda as their agent, he was wealthy with their favor and the mission and power that came with it. No one was a match for glorious Glorfindel. But all at once, peerlessness came with a unique poverty – he was a noble lord without a House, an ancient warrior with dead friends.

On the other hand, Elrond: younger than the golden Glorfindel, he would never have lived if the ancient lord has not been instrumental in the saving of Elrond's forebears in the fallen Kingdom of Gondolin. It was the battle that cost Glorfindel his first life. Elrond valued the older elf's wisdom and prowess, and was grateful for his sacrifice and continuing contributions. But he had himself grown wise and noble over time, a leader to his people, the master of his own House - beneath which Glorfindel sheltered.

Woven beneath and around and within their complex relations was a tangle of alternating and co-existing affection, deference, respect and gratitude. It was a good thing they seldom disagreed, which would have tested the twists and turns of their intricate power relationship.

_Seldom _did they disagree...

Perhaps more accurately, _Almost never_, such that Glorfindel could not even remember the last time they had divergent views and had consequently needed to navigate around each other to find a path forward.

But he couldn't keep silent, not about this.

"I knew you would find your way to me sooner or later," Elrond said from beyond the doors of his private office, even before Glorfindel announced his presence and asked to be let in.

"And yet here we still are," Glorfindel said, attempting to stay wry, yet finding himself steered toward edginess as he entered the room and closed the door behind him. "Here we still are, debating the shall we say, relative merits of your decision on the formation of this 'Fellowship.'"

Elrond sighed. "And what, pray tell, is the object of your displeasure?"

_Most of it_.

"That I would send hobbits to Mt. Doom?" Elrond asked. "That I would lay the fate of our world on the shoulders of an innocent country child and his undisciplined, untrained lot of friends? That I would send with them two men who have no trust of each other, and an elf and a dwarf almost certainly expected to come to blows at some point of this quest? That Mithrandir is perhaps in over his pointy hat, steeped in it all?"

"There is all that," Glorfindel said wryly, for the years have not dented his appreciation for the ridiculous. "But as we all agreed, this is a mission of stealth and a mission of the heart. My objection lies elsewhere. You know of who I speak."

"Ah," Elrond said, pretending to be obtuse. "You have cause to complain about the dispatch of _literally _the most able scout, hunter, bowman, horseman and combatant of the Fellowship... and amongst the best of our kin."

"Legolas Greenleaf is all those things," Glorfindel conceded, "but _I_ bested him, did I not?"

"You did," Elrond said. "But I was not looking for an undefeatable fighter in picking who to send out with Frodo."

Glorfindel pursed his lips in annoyance and crossed his arms over his chest, daring the other elf to explain.

Elrond raised a brow, but indulged him. "The Ring is a powerful, seductive force. I need someone gifted enough to be an asset to the Fellowship, but if he is corrupted – as so many have been – someone stoppable by the others. Legolas has exceptional skills but also, some fallibility. If he should stray, as any member of the Fellowship could, Legolas cannot completely overpower them. They would have a fighting chance. Someone like you on the other hand... well, if you should stray, you have the capacity to decimate them."

"You think I would stray?"

"So many have," Elrond said grimly. "Anyone can."

Glorfindel sighed. And so his plan of exempting Legolas from Mt. Doom by defeating him had backfired.

"But I have another cause for objection. Legolas Greenleaf has... a certain aptitude...for killing folk on his own side. I've reported this to you at length before - I do not condemn him for it," Glorfindel clarified quickly. What had both Legolas and Thranduil told him when he was in Mirkwood?

"Killing he is willing to do only because of brutal earned experience and necessity," he added. "Legolas understands its gravity. My worry is that in making him part of the Fellowship, this aspect of his character is actively expected of him."

Glorfindel's mind raced with the prospect of this. The One Ring could tempt friends into foes, couldn't it? Just as the other members of the Fellowship had to be able to stop Legolas if they needed to, the converse was also true.

Was Legolas expected to deal lethal blows amongst any erring traveling companions? The elven prince also had a history of mercy killing – was he expected to cut down the non-combatant companions of his company, who might be captured with vital information? What would such actions do to the flickering light of that sometimes tortured soul?

"What if I do expect it?" Elrond asked, and they stared at each other thoughtfully. "What would be so wrong with that?"

As a healer keeping one of the most welcoming homes in all of Arda, Elrond had a reputation for certain benevolence. But let it not be forgotten he was a fierce warrior too, and a pragmatic elven Lord who had seen – was still seeing – his family and his people through the worst of times. He was equally blessed and cursed with both power and the long view, allowing him to understand and make tough decisions if he had to. Tough decisions including sending people to their deaths...

... or sending people to dealing it.

"My heart failed me in it once," Elrond said, remembering Isildur's failure to destroy the Ring when they were already at the very mouth of the fires of Mt. Doom. Inextricable to this was his own failure to destroy Isildur for it. "Maybe Legolas would have the fortitude."

"It is..." Glorfindel searched for the right word. But there was none to describe what was expected of Legolas on this journey, none to describe the self-punishing cuts on Legolas' arm, none to describe the darkness that marred his soul, the silent screams he made in the night.

"It is a burden too heavy to bear for any single elf," Glorfindel finished. He could see it in his mind – hobbits dead from gold-fletched arrows or slim white knives, and a new torment, a new nightmare, for a burdened wood-elf... assuming he survived their mission in the first place.

"Not any more than the outsize burden Frodo must bear," Elrond pointed out. "Or Aragorn. Or Mithrandir. There are no easy choices to make. We have to believe the prize at the end is worth the cost – be it Frodo's soul, Aragorn's line, Arwen's immortality, or Legolas' sanity."

Elrond sighed. "At any rate it may comfort you to know, I do not send him only for that – convenient though it may be, if needed. I liked it, how he was so clearly defeated by you and still fought on. Furthermore, you spoke of a darkness in him. It is a taint borne by fighting and living close to the enemy for so long. In a mission of stealth, wouldn't you say it has practical uses?"

"Camouflage," Glorfindel conceded. "He can hide the light of our people in a way no one from the more peaceful havens of Imladris or Lothlorien could. He also has an uncanny sense of the orc."

Elrond opened his hands out as if the other elf had proven his point precisely.

Glorfindel exhaled carefully. "Fair and measured as always, _mellon-nin_."

"I know you would rather I sent you," Elrond said earnestly, "and if you have any other points of consideration I would hear them. But I've already come to this decision with much care and am confident it is the right one. In the short time I've known him, Legolas has earned my respect, trust and warm affection. I have every confidence with his part in this mission."

Elrond paused thoughtfully before continuing. "You've never spoken of it but I know you hold a deep attachment to the _ernil_. I am sorry if this grieves you. But the decision stands, and I would advise you to seek him now, and spend what time is available to you."

"You will send them out soon?"

"Tomorrow – at dusk."

**# # #**

Glorfindel let himself into Legolas' rooms, but the Woodland Prince was not within them.

They were guest quarters appropriate to a prince in Elrond's House and so hardly sparse, but it was barely lived in, as if its occupant owned nothing. It was a stark contrast from the busy productivity of Legolas' suites in Thranduil's Halls.

There were a few small things though, so simply laid out it made Glorfindel's heart sting. There was a small, weathered book of Woodland songs on the bed; a traveling cloak thrown against the back of a chair; on the writing desk was a needle and thread and a soft old undershirt halfway through mending – there was a ragged cut across a sleeve.

Beside it lay a pot of ink and a quill, two sheets of mostly blank paper, and apparently, abandoned intentions. One letter began with the word "_Adar_," and had nothing else on it. The same could be said of the one addressed to "_Meleth-nin_."

Glorfindel's eyes watered, but instead of dwelling on it, he grabbed the torn shirt, sat on the chair, and started sewing. With gusto.

_These set of stitches are going to be the best damned set of stitches anyone would ever see_, he thought; only half in jest.

He'd put in the last stitch when the curtains stirred, and from the balcony and beyond it – the Woodland Prince emerged, with leaves in his hair. He startled slightly at the sight of Glorfindel, and he glanced at the unfinished – _un-started, really_ – letter on the desk.

"I've read it if you must know," Glorfindel told him wryly. "It was voluminous but riveting."

Legolas smirked, and walked toward him. "I guess I really do find goodbye letters trite."

Glorfindel rose from his seat, and handed Legolas the mended shirt. The blue eyes – still bruised slightly from their sparring that had devolved into a brawl - lit up in appreciation. He suddenly looked so young.

"_Thank you_," he said with such tender sincerity that Glorfindel's heart ached again, deeply and dully.

He steered his attention away from the increasingly familiar pain, and jerked his head in the direction of the balcony. "Where in all of Arda did you come from anyway?"

"I was in the trees," Legolas replied.

"These are great heights!"

Legolas shrugged; it was immaterial to him.

"I asked them about you," he teased quietly instead. "All good things, I'm afraid. Either they are lying, or you are well and truly boring."

"I think more the latter," Glorfindel said with a soft laugh. He raised his hands up to Legolas' hair, and started picking some of the leaves off of it. Legolas grinned, leaned closer, and let him.

"You know," Glorfindel murmured with a pretense of distraction, as he moved around Legolas and busied himself with the task, "There are all these glittering elves in Imladris and yet Elrond decides to send Thranduil's son to Mordor. The Elvenking would have much to say about that, I imagine."

"Oh he'll say nothing," Legolas said flippantly, "but he might start a war."

Glorfindel stayed serious. "It should be me to go and not you. I tried my best."

"I know," Legolas said. "I understand now. But it seems Lord Elrond has his own criteria."

"I need you to understand what your mission could mean..."

"I know what it means," Legolas said quietly.

"Are you ready to shoot a hobbit between the eyes?" Glorfindel asked bluntly.

"You know the answer to that," Legolas replied. "The doing is easy. It is the living with it that is hard. But maybe that is optimistic anyway."

"You know you told me once," said Glorfindel, "you always come out at the end, no matter what. You do not believe it anymore?"

"I've faced plenty of adversity before," Legolas said. "Everything about this feels different. We're at a precipice. Victory will be glorious but defeat – unbearable. They are equally likely. I'm glad it's not you."

There were no more leaves to pick from the lovely head. Glorfindel stroked at it instead. There were jagged edges from the hair shorn during their fight. Their ends tickled at Glorfindel's sore and swollen knuckles, also from the same match. Damage on damage, they touched.

"But I think we can win," Legolas said determinedly. "I believe in Aragorn. And I find I have the utmost faith in Frodo. Many people regard hobbits as naïve children but I look at them as something else entirely. You see in all my life as a soldier, the only people who have ever given me any real grief were orcs, dwarves and _hobbits_. On a per-head basis - that is to say, who caused me the most trouble as an individual - _two_ hobbits top the list. More than any single orc or any single dwarf, it is Bilbo Baggins and later, Gollum, who have caused outsize effects in my home. They are hardy and wily, full of their own brand of danger and at the same time, tantalizing promise. I feel the latter, for Frodo."

Glorfindel moved to face Legolas then, and saw more wisdom in Elrod's choice from the younger elf's enlightened perspective.

"Where will this war bring you?" Legolas asked.

"I will as always be at the disposal of Elrond's House first," Glorfindel answered. "If I can be spared from duties here however, I would ask leave to return with your soldiers and go to Mirk – that is to say, Eryn Galen. It would show good faith I think, for me to speak to the Elvenking personally of Elrond's decision. And since your departure deprives your people of a gifted soldier at a time of escalating aggression, the exchange may be a fair one. I will offer your father my services, however way he would have me."

Legolas took a deep breath, and he exhaled it slowly. He looked relieved. "It would mean the world to me if _aran-nin_ could be appeased and if my home can have someone like you fighting for it in my absence, at this difficult time. I will never forget it, my lord. Those were my only regrets in accepting the assignment. I can leave in peace, now."

Glorfindel winced. He sounded like he was going to his death.

"Legolas – "

The younger elf gave him an imploring look, wordlessly begging him not to contest, to say nothing more on the matter. If he could find peace here, Glorfindel should leave it be. He bit back his objection, and nodded in understanding.

He settled for an attempt at levity instead. He nodded toward the letters on the desk. "If you finish this, I could hand it to your father personally. As for the other one... you need write nothinh=g more. I am actually quite content with the words as they appear."

As the tease left his mouth, Glorfindel realized he had meant what he said. He was fully and achingly content with "_Meleth-nin_," written in Legolas' hand.

"How do you know that one is for you?" Legolas asked, blinking at the other elf innocently.

Glorfindel barked out a surprise laugh, and he snatched the letter from the desk. "Well, it's certainly mine now."

Legolas snatched it back, and Glorfindel released it only so that it wouldn't break. In one conversation of a few minutes, it had suddenly become wildly precious to him -

The Woodland Prince folded the paper and tore it in half.

"Legolas-!" he cried out in premature horror.

The younger elf handed Glorfindel the blank one of the two halves. "I will give you this," he said of the half he held, where his writing remained intact, "For a fair price."

Glorfindel's lips widened to a smile in understanding. He took the quill from the inkpot and wrote out words of his own:

"_Meleth-nin_."

"Original," Legolas said wryly, but his blue stare was glazed with warmth and meaning.

With bated breaths they exchanged sheets of paper, and Glorfindel knew that for all the rest of his life he would remember how their hands looked: long and powerful, bruised but graceful, grazing, touching, lingering.

_I am content with the words as they appear here_.

_I am content_.

**INTERLUDE 3, set in Gondor after the War of the Ring, WILL BE POSTED IN A FEW DAYS**. Stay at home and stay safe, friends!

**In the meantime, an AFTERWORD ON CHARACTERIZATIONS AND THEMES**

* * *

**I. Characterizations**

A few notable items in the characters' depictions in _Your Light in the Dark_.

**A. Glorfindel.**

Though it is in the third person, the fic is from his perspective. We do not know what Legolas or the others think of him, other than what they tell him or what he could surmise from their interactions. This is why there are references to him as an "_ancient warlord_" or "_an old fool_." He isn't attractive to _himself_, and he does not make too much of other people's admiration. These lines sum up this idea:

_"You are too used to admiration I think," Legolas said grimly, to Glorfindel's chagrin. Was that really why he had suspected nothing, or dismissed the possibility of Legolas' earnest attentions? "You are also busy with your divine missions to bother with the likes of me."_

He was aware of other people's awe, but he 'suffered it casually.' For my own good though, hahaha, I think of Glorfindel as being either like Alexander Skarsgard in _Tarzan _(2016) or Sam Heughan in _Outlander_: really pretty, really golden, but really powerful – hardly "_ancient_" or "_old_," though these are how he describes himself in the fic.

In canon, Glorfindel has been described as tall with shining gold hair, having a fair and youthful face, with bright eyes. I think the actors can work, lol.

Speaking of canon, the book described his as a face with joy, and I wanted to depict that along with Glorfindel's strength and sense of purpose. This is my main reason why he was depicted with a kind of dark humor even after all he's seen so much by this time.

As for Glorfindel's power of reaching out for the _fea_... I remember reading that when he was sent back to Middle Earth sometime in the Second Age as a kind of errand boy of the gods, he was blessed with powers just short of the capabilities of the Maiar. We don't know too much about it unfortunately, so I drew on depictions of connections in otherworldly planes as depicted in the films, like Galadriel communicating with Gandalf, Elrond and others with her mind; or Arwen connecting with distant and injured Aragorn; or Gandalf describing Frodo as '_passed beyond my sight_.' I hope it makes sense!

**B. Legolas.**

I have written this character so much but finding new facets and routes to explore still excites me. I know I went down a dark road here... I depicted him as a scarred soul, like a light flickering in the wind. The Legolas in _Your Light..._ is a reserved workaholic with bloodied hands whose salvation was in duty and purpose.

But I also wanted him to be salvageable – you can court a smile from him, he can get a good (or a bad) joke, he can love. When I started this fic it was about that shift – Glorfindel bringing a light into his darkness.

As the work progressed though, I was surprised myself that it was the other way around – just like Istor's observation in the last chapter. It was darkness getting to Glorfindel instead.

I pondered on this and wondered if I should track back and change things. But the more I thought about it, I stuck to how it organically developed rather than with now I originally conceived the tale. Eventually, I realized why felt I could live with it – Glorfindel-as-I-depicted him wasn't going to be the light in Legolas' life; I felt that honor was going to go to Aragorn.

After all, _Your Light in the Dark _precedes _The Hobbit _films, where Legolas still leaned toward reserved and dark. Whereas the Legolas of the War of the Ring was a lighter being, and in between these two depictions was, I felt, the years he would spend knowing Aragorn, the man his father told him to seek after _The Battle of the Five Armies_.

**C. Why Legolas and Not Glorfindel for the Fellowship?** So this is an old question in the fandom. If Glorfindel was so awesome, why was Legolas sent instead? There are many theories, and I've put forth one before via the fic, _These Visions of You_. In _Your Light in the Dark_, I am making another attempt at answering this. Apparently someone can be too awesome – Legolas' darkness and fallibility were more useful than Glorfindel's light and power. In some ways this is a dark characterization of Elrond too, in the short period he appears here, because he finds Legolas' utility. But I do believe someone like Elrond is capable of these tough choices.

**D. Thranduil and Mirkwood. **Speaking of tough elven leaders... _The Hobbit_ films and how they depict Thranduil and Mirkwood were the reasons I found my way back to the fandom. I watched them long after they came out, really just stumbled on them on the telly or something I forget now. But Lee Pace and the new kingdom just stimulated me and here we now are.

Pace's electric depiction now informs all of my Thranduil characterizations: perceptive, impervious, mercurial, with a kind of contrived frigidity that covered for brutal vulnerability. His character history (book or movie) is after all, quite traumatizing: his father, dead. His wife, dead. His population, almost decimated. His kingdom severely diminished. He had some sort of disfigurement (there is some debate as to its extent or continuing existence). His apparently only child, always in danger (and later, would leave him). In short, hahaha – he had some license to be a jerk. Yet somehow, he was more magnetic by it. Maybe I'm a masochist ;)

Anyways, I hope the depiction is familiar and fair.

As for Mirkwood, this has become a character for me too (and always, inextricable from Thranduil). I felt there were so many tales that could be told within its kind of, noble decline. I think of it like being a declining aristocracy (cash poor, land rich, besieged by a new age), or a once-rich mining or automobile town that is slowly dying after the death of its main industry. It gives its people a unique struggle and strength that lately I find irresistible to depict.

When I first returned to the fandom after seeing _The Hobbit _films, I was fascinated by the place and its fictional possibilities but I was kind of cavalier about it. The more I delved into this benighted place as a character though, I wanted to be more nuanced and respectful of its struggle.

For example, I used to use "Mirkwood" lightly (see _Walking Wounded_). But eventually I became more sensitive to this as almost derogatory. Would Thranduil or Legolas been so willing to call their home thus, and I felt the answer would be a no. So in_ Your Light in the Dark_, only outsiders called it that. Furthermore, the sharp-eyed may have noticed a little Easter egg about this throughout the fic:

At the bleak start, it was called "Mirkwood." At the sweet middle, it was "Eryn Galen" and Glorfindel would even correct himself at some point about its name. Because the tale was from his perspective, the name was supposed to symbolize his evolving understanding of it. When things were going badly, it reverted to "Mirkwood" again. And as we know – it will be that way until the end of the War of the Ring turns it into Eryn Lasgalen :)

**E. Original Characters. **I used quite a bit of OCs here, but I hope they served to highlight the main characters rather than distracting from them. Just a few remarks:

**Names. **As always, I would advise the use of one of those elf name generators online – they are so much fun, and sometimes useful prompts!

**"Rochanarion." **Also, I was kind of intentional in not naming the three sons of the fallen soldier Rochanar. You may recall Glorfindel asking one of them who he was apart from being his father's son and he said no one. I wanted the medium to be the message – that they were reduced to being nothing but that in their grief / madness. This was why it was so important for them to embark on their disastrous mission. Their family tragedy was that they became so reduced and single-minded.

**Recycled Names.** I've used many of these OCs in previous fics: Maenor, Rossenith, Renior and Telion. But as I've mentioned in other notes before, the stories are unconnected – the names and depictions are consistent though. I just use them for convenience so I wouldn't have to go nuts inventing new characters all the time :)

**Silon.** Silon, however, is new. Created almost only just so he could be killed in a way, so that he can be special for this story... but I may recycle him in a hopefully happier tale in the future!

**II. Themes**

**A. The Evolution of Love.** Oh, slow burn love stories. I love them and they are so immersive but they require so much nuance and patience (from both reader and writer!).

How can one depict the magic of the everyday, gradually changing? How could you describe the bloom of a flower in discreet steps? I looked through my own relationships, lol, and outlined specific stages in how I felt love could evolve. Then, I tried to fill them out.

(1) Acquaintance. This is when the two protagonists met and started working together.

(2) Compassion. This is when repeated interactions made them more "human" to each other. Where sympathy is courted by more knowledge and exposure. In the fic, this is when Glorfindel starts to feel for the struggles of Legolas' people. His _people_, not necessarily just him, but him as a part of a larger collective.

(3) Friendship. When the other person becomes regarded and valued for who they are as an _individual_, this is when friendship comes. In the fic, this is when Legolas and Glorfindel enjoy each other's stimulating company.

Then it gets murkier, lol:

(4) Attraction and Possibility. I didn't want to jump the gun on this, so I decided I would make Glorfindel realize first that Legolas was attractive to other people: Silon and Tauriel. This made him see the other from a new lens, a kind of social signal. The lens of attraction got him out of the friendship blinders. Other forms of liking and relationships were suddenly possible.

(5) Tension. You like someone as a person and could possibly like them as something else. So what happens next? There is tension, because you start to wonder if they regard you similarly. These are small pulls and pushes that don't rock the boat – you want to see if your interest is shared, but you don't want to jeopardize friendship. You tease and push the bounds. In the fic, this is mostly from Legolas' end, with Glorfindel left wondering :)

(6) Action. This is when the protagonists take the plunge, where, as I think was mentioned more articulately in the fic haha, the end could be a disastrous fall or a miracle save.

(7) Definition and Commitment.

Anyways, I tried to be careful and nuanced. I hope it was somewhat realistic, fluid, and of course, in character.

**B. But Love is Not Everything**. I wanted this to be clear right from the very beginning, and I tried to stick with this thought throughout. Love affairs, as Glorfindel noted in one of the latter chapters, wasn't exactly in their top 10 priorities in a time of conflict.

They are busy, burdened people with a deep sense of responsibility to the greater good. It's not easy, and Glorfindel is depicted as struggling with weighing his care for Legolas against collective gains and his own work commitments. But he decided toward work in the end; just as Legolas did, until the War was won.

Besides, I felt they love each other partly for their respective selflessness in a way, and neither would want to change that in each other.

I wanted them to have a love that powers the soul, but doing what is good takes precedence for these duty-bound warriors.

My idea of love and how I live my life is like that – it doesn't wholly consume. It carves a foundation and a home for the soul, but from it branches avenues for individual achievement and growth.

This philosophy, matched with the elves' long view and immortality, I felt should give them a high tolerance for waiting. This is why it's a love story that can have gaps of a hundred years, even if it may seem too long for us.

**C. Some mood music, just because. **Speaking of love... is it just me or don't old-timey power ballads bring out a sense of dramatic romance?

It could be the musical structure mirroring the progression of a plot in the genre: gentle swaying beginnings, hard beats, a rousing chorus, a tense bridge, then a sweet resolution? It could also be the words – power ballads tend to have heart-on-the-sleeve, ride-or-die lyrics perfect for a magnified conflict. Either way, I try to be cool and current on music but when writing a romance, I almost always fall back this way! So for the curious, this is the playlist underlying the strains of _Your Light in the Dark_:

The instrumental opening of "Sailing" by Christopher Cross is the soundtrack of Legolas and Glorfindel looking at the striking nature views of Eryn Galen together. The story was actually begun from me hearing this on the radio and seeing the scenes unfold in my head... the plot just followed afterwards!

References to light in the darkness were inspired by lyrics from "Somewhere Somehow" By Michael W. Smith and Amy Grant. The part that gets me is "_... and somehow, through the lonely nights / I will leave a light in the dark/ Let it lead you to my heart._"

The ending goodbye scene prior to the epilogue was brought to you by the feeling and words of "Hands to Heaven" by Breathe. It sounds "cold" to me, like an effort at stoicism to quell the mounting devastation of an imminent parting: "_Tomorrow I must leave, the dawn knows no reprieve_." The fact that it also had lyrics pertaining to darkness and prayer was a bonus :)

Then there's old reliable Peter Cetera, whose "Glory of Love" is plainly heroic in a cinematic sort of way; and whose "After All" inspires the epilogue and its repeated encounters: "_After all the stops and starts, we keep coming back to these two hearts_."

There may be more, I don't remember :) Just a bit of frivolity on the part of the author!

**D. Now let's talk about the Slash. **I am always a bit apprehensive about writing slash fics because my personal identity is not steered this way... I can't help but worry about proper and respectful representation. But as you may be able to tell from the above, I'm treating it just as love. I hope it worked out.

I believe I lost a handful of readers on this journey the moment it started drifting toward m/m romance, though. I respect people's creative preferences and boundaries (I have some, myself) – I can only thank them for their time and for giving the story (and slash in general) a shot.

I've always been forthcoming on the slash direction, and if anyone who is against slash clicks on the tale in curiosity, I think they did their part in being open to new ideas. The responsibility to deliver thereafter shifts to me, to try and make the story and the character development compelling and believable enough for them to stick around and maybe change their mind.

Sometimes I succeed and other times I don't. I am just grateful that people are willing to open up a story and listen to a view that differs from their own. I will just have to do a better job in the future :)

'til the next post, everyone!


	23. A Noun and a Verb

_** hello gang!**_

_So this is it... this Epilogue ends_ Your Light in the Dark. _Thank you so much to anyone who's stuck with me through it, and especially to everyone who shared their thoughts via reviews and PMs. Your generosity and kindness are invaluable to the completion of this project, and I will try my best to issue personalized responses in the next few weeks and months. _

_The coronavirus situation is turning our world topsy-turvy... I hope my work brings anyone who reads it some amusement and joy. Stay safe, stay healthy, be kind, and never lose hope :) C&Cs are as welcome as always 3_

**_Some housekeeping:_**_ The third part of my usual _Afterword_ will be posted at the end of the fic, which will feature _**Acknowledgments of Reviewers, and a Note on the Next Project **_(even if it will likely never be posted, just to manage expectations_). Anyways, without further ado:

**# # #**

**Epilogue**

**# # #**

**Interlude 3/3: A Noun and A Verb**

_In Gondor, After _The War of the Ring

**# # #**

There was a time in his life when thought for certain that the world had ended.

It was a distant but unshakable force, like glass that fell and shattered in another room. Something had become irrecoverable, and it was only a matter of walking up to open the door and find all the remnants of it.

_Legolas_.

All throughout the quest of the Fellowship and their distance during the War of the Ring, the Woodland's Prince's _fea_ was like the heartbeat that pulsed through Glorfindel's life even though he often did not heed it. It was simply persistently and indispensably there, but unimposing. It let him work, and it left him be.

But it was inescapable in select situations.

In a lonely, quiet night it thundered in his ears.

When he was fighting and at the end of his strength, it was loud and forceful in his veins, a wellspring of power - sometimes its last frontier.

Glorfindel had gotten hurt once, twice, slightly, grievously, here and there - they all did. But in these instances that heartbeat roared and would not be ignored. It was the thrumming energy that always brought him back to his feet.

_Get up, get up, get up_ went the insistent rhythm, and he always would because getting to his feet meant that one day, he could step forward on the winding road that led to love at the end.

Legolas thus spurred the first step, he powered the journey, and he was also the destination.

But one day that heartbeat jerked and stilled, and it stole Glorfindel's breath, sending him to his knees. The devastation of the loss of it folded him forward in half. He held himself tightly, even while he cast his soul open, like a wide net with worldly expanse.

_Where have you gone?_

He was so certain the world had ended.

And then the heartbeat stuttered to starting again, and Glorfindel himself unfurled and came alive anew. He took a deep breath, one after the other after the other.

_Legolas was alive_, and so he was too.

But the beat had changed. It was lighter and thinner, no longer earthbound. It had the sway and lilt of the ocean.

Glorfindel knew it for what it was: Legolas had been called to that elven home which lay beyond the glorious but sundering Sea.

It altered the song of the elven prince's soul – the same way a tune goes up a half step to a different key. The song was fundamentally the same, but the change was unmistakable.

**# # #**

Glorfindel knew it the very moment it happened, like a sudden clearing of the air: Sauron had been vanquished.

Shortly afterwards, from where he had offered his services and fought beside the Elvenking Thranduil in Eryn Galen, Glorfindel received a request from Elrond to travel to Gondor.

It was nominally to be part of the forward party for the Returned King's wedding to the Evenstar. But Glorfindel also knew it was a blessing from Elrond, for it was well-known that Legolas of the Woodland Realm was there and the Lord of Imladris knew what he meant to the ancient warlord. Glorfindel received Elrond's request enthusiastically.

The wartime hope he harbored finally became an indisputable truth: he was taking the first step on a road where love waited at the end.

Glorfindel was dispatched to the White City with a party of elves from Eryn Galen – they had business with their prince – and an entourage of elves from Imladris to assist Glorfindel in preparations. It made for an impressive entourage, but the traveling group was unwieldly and they near-drove Glorfindel mad on the journey. The loyal Istor, taking amused pity on his commander, encouraged Glorfindel to ride ahead and he barely gave it a thought. The roads were safe enough now, and he simply could not wait.

It was how he arrived alone on horseback before everyone else.

_Every step brought him closer..._

But almost immediately upon his arrival in the White City, Glorfindel was delayed from reaching his true destination. Gimli Son of Gloin was at the very gate to the storied capital of the King, his dwarven expertise well put-to-work by human engineers and planners over repairs and improvements. The last time they saw each other was the Fellowship's departure from Rivendell.

"Master Dwarf," Glorfindel dismounted his horse and greeted him with earnest delight. He was happy to be reunited with one of the glorious Fellowship, but he was distracted too, looking forward to a reunion of a different sort. He looked about for Legolas, just in case he too hovered near.

There had been talk the elf and dwarf were now inseparable – but Legolas was nowhere to be seen, and maybe it was just a rumor. Plenty of those going around about the Fellowship nowadays, including a few tall tales of Legolas' prowess – a _mumakil_? really? – that made Glorfindel's stomach twist and that he was hoping were false.

"Lord Glorfindel," Gimli greeted him with more restraint.

His beady eyes were sharp beneath his brows, and Glorfindel had the distinct feeling of being... _measured_. It was strangely fitting, considering Gimli was literally holding a measuring stick. He had abandoned a conference with human workers over written plans on a rickety table nearby, in favor of Glorfindel's company.

"Well met!" Glorfindel told him. "Quite the journey you have been on – and a victory much deserved."

"And much paid for," Gimli said grimly.

Glorfindel nodded, and sympathized with what was no doubt, a reference to the burdens of Frodo, as well as the widely-reported loss of the Gondorian warrior, Boromir. All the rest of the Fellowship would assuredly be living with each their own scars too, he thought – Legolas among them, for the sea-calling. Glorfindel placed a hand over his heart and gave Gimli a solemn bow.

"I am sorry for all that you have lost and all you have been through," he said sincerely. "May the brighter years of the new age you helped forge bring our world true healing and great joy."

"May it indeed," Gimli said.

Glorfindel considered it a good exit, but apparently the dwarf did not. Glorfindel made a step around and forward, but his way was blocked. He frowned and waited quietly for the dwarf to speak his mind.

Gimli glanced at the humans waiting for his return and staring at them. He took Glorfindel familiarly by the elbow – a surprisingly intimate gesture from a dwarf to an elf - and steered him away. Yet he still hesitated with what he wanted to say.

"You seek Aragorn, I presume."

Glorfindel nodded. "My first duty is to greet and issue reports to Elessar. Upon my person I carry word from the leaders of no less than five realms. From Elrond of Imladris who had sent me; from the Elvenking Thranduil with whom I served; from Lothlorien as we worked in close concert in Eryn Lasgalen in the final days of the War; and from Erebor and Laketown nearby."

He caught Gimli's twitch at the word "Erebor," and he clarified quickly: "You probably know by now your kin have emerged victorious. But I bear assurance also, that your father himself came out well."

Gimli exhaled slowly and grinned. "Aye – I never doubted."

Glorfindel smiled at him encouragingly and was hoping the spot of good news would make Gimli more forthcoming now. He was not disappointed.

"Men have odd notions of kings," Gimli said. "They have Aragorn running about ragged."

Glorfindel looked up at the large, mighty, thrumming City. "I suppose it would be difficult to find him in this maze, and I should present myself formally to his chief-of-staff, or aide-de-camp or diplomatic minister or protocol officer... whichever is nearest."

Gimli _tsked_ at him. "You could, but I can almost guarantee you no one would be able to find him until much later."

Glorfindel looked at him thoughtfully. "Have you any better ideas, Master Dwarf?"

"Of course I do," Gimli said boldly. He glanced at the men waiting for him again, and he sighed with regret. "Ah, what a boon it would have been if I was the one who brought you to him. What riches I could later reap."

Glorfindel had no idea what he was talking about. "By bringing me to Aragorn?"

The question was ignored, and Gimli sighed anew. "But duties come first, I suppose."

Gimli motioned for Glorfindel to lean in and come closer, and was duly obliged.

"There is one place Aragorn goes when he needs to be hidden for a while," Gimli whispered in his ear. "You will find him in Legolas' chambers at the King's House. Someone like you will find no trouble entering it."

Glorfindel frowned, and pulled back slightly in surprise. He did not know what Aragorn's presence in Legolas' rooms might mean for him, but Gimli pulled him closer.

"Just make sure that pointy-eared wood-elf knows _I_ was the one who sent you to him," Gimli said. "Make sure he knows it was by _my_ doing that you should be reunited so efficiently. Make sure Aragorn knows too. Teach those two fools to take the good counsel of this wise dwarf more seriously!"

Glorfindel's brows furrowed, but the dwarf did not expound before irreverently waving him away.

"Take care of him," Gimli said, as he returned to his company of working men. Glorfindel shook his head at Gloin's son with confusion and amusement. Dwarves were so strange, sometimes.

Glorfindel mounted his horse and looked up at the mighty City. Legolas was somewhere up there. Why Aragorn would be in his rooms was a mild worry that paled next to the fact that Legolas was only steps away, only moments away.

Glorfindel stretched out his senses, and opened up his _fea_ the way he always did when the _ernil_ was near. He _began a familiar tune low in his breath, and waited for someone to join him and make it a duet..._

... but there was nothing.

He prodded his horse forward, faster.

**# # #**

Just as Gimli said, it was easy for an elf of Glorfindel's bearing to enter the innermost chambers of the King's house. He had no qualms about using – _abusing?_ \- the _edain's_ usual bewilderment of the _eldar_ to his advantage, if it helped him attain his objectives.

In short order he had gotten his horse stabled and settled, and had been ushered right to the very doors of the rooms assigned to the elven prince.

It was the destination of all these years. The end of the road, where love stood waiting.

_But why is it so silent_?

Glorfindel hesitated, and raised his hand to knock. He cleared his throat to declare his presence to anyone who may hear him from within. But before he could put his fist to rap at the door, he heard a quiet shuffling from inside, and the doors were pried open by none other than the man who was _supposed_ to be the King of Gondor.

They gaped at each other in surprise.

_It was equally undignified_, Glorfindel conceded.

Aragorn, however, recovered first. He placed a finger to his lips for quiet, looked up and down the corridors, and then pulled Glorfindel into Legolas' sitting room. The Woodland Prince himself was out of immediate sight.

Glorfindel saw him finally, the deeper he went into the paper-strewn space. The doors to the sleeping quarters were ajar, and Legolas was in there, laying blanketed over the bed and heavily asleep. His face was starkly white and wan, save for dark shadows beneath alarmingly closed eyes.

Glorfindel's breath caught in his throat, for how brutally familiar was this sight? He stepped forward at once, but like Gimli had done, Aragorn got in his way. Glorfindel whipped his head at the _adan_ in annoyance at further delay.

"Please," Aragorn implored him quietly, "I'd thank you not to wake him, my lord. I've only just prevailed upon him to sleep."

"_That_ is not sleeping," Glorfindel hissed.

A small, sad smile teased at Aragorn's face. "I suppose it isn't, by usual standards. Let me re-phrase: I've only just prevailed upon him to take a draught that helps him sleep. Let it deepen, and then he wouldn't wake for a few hours even if we started jumping on the bed."

Glorfindel hesitated. He was not ready to be appeased, and his eyes raked hungrily over Legolas' still form. He could not see beneath the blanket pulled midway up the wood-elf's chest, but he did not detect the added bulk of bandages, nor could he see or smell traces of blood.

Legolas, unmarred as he was though, still looked... _unwell_. The warrior's braids have been undone – they were loose and splayed about the bed, but neatly... as if he'd barely moved. And the beautiful adroit hands of Arda's most gifted archer were limp on his sides, palms up, softly open, _vulnerable_.

"I did not receive word he'd been hurt," Glorfindel said tentatively. He kept his eyes on the prince, but stepped back as was requested. Aragorn relaxed.

"I don't know if 'hurt' is the proper word for it," Aragorn said, "But he's certainly ailing enough."

"The sea-calling," Glorfindel said.

Aragorn's eyes lit in interest. "You know...?"

"I felt it," Glorfindel answered. "And when I met with the Lady Galadriel, she told me it had been foreseen for Legolas."

"Do you know much about it?" Aragorn asked. "If you do, I might know how to make his situation more bearable."

"Why would there be a need for intervention?"

Aragorn paused, before replying – "He means to defy it and stay for a while... for me, for all the others that he loves here."

Glorfindel took a deep, slow breath. "I do not know much about this, Estel – only that it has never been defied. It is a call to the core of the soul. He is going against his nature." He shook his head worriedly. "This is ill-advised, and the results are as we are beginning to see it."

Glorfindel was genuinely horrified by the thought of Legolas postponing his journey now that he had been called. There was no silencing the Sea, once stirred in an elf – especially for the forest-sheltered Silvans. To be called by the Sea and try to keep mortal attachments in Arda would be like a ship throwing anchor in the middle of a raging storm. The waves can come from any direction, battering mercilessly against a tethered vessel until it breaks apart.

"You need to let him go," Glorfindel told Aragorn softly.

"I am trying," Aragorn admitted with a wince. "He won't hear of it. He says it is not some dread disease or illness. He says he's borne worse things. But I am not blind even if he is willing to play at it." He paused. "He's been missing days. Some are lost to him altogether. He doesn't even know."

Glorfindel sighed, and ran his hands over his face. "I will make my own case. His father will too. Thranduil was told in the same occasion that I was."

Aragorn grimaced. "Ah, Legolas was hoping to speak of it with the Elvenking himself. This is why, as grave a matter as it is – a malady befalls a foreign prince - I did not mention it in the first missives to Thranduil. That wily wood-elf prince said I was excused from doing so because at the time, I was not yet crowned King. He pulled rank on me, if you can believe it."

Glorfindel stared at Legolas, so deeply asleep. So profoundly absent.

"Why did you let him?" Glorfindel murmured.

Aragorn turned to face Legolas' way himself. He did not answer, and instead motioned for Glorfindel to join him in the sitting room. His work was all over the place. He sat at some impossibly located space on the floor and motioned for Glorfindel to do the same.

"You are still a mess, Estel," Glorfindel teased him, gently. As many in Imladris had, he helped raise this person into the man he now was. Into the _King_ he had become. "For all that you've accomplished, you still do not know how to handle a sheaf of papers."

"It helps me think," Aragorn said with a jaunty smile. "These are all the things that need doing most immediately. Legolas lets me hide away and work here in his rooms if I do not wish to be found. He is... seldom in them anyway."

"Why not?"

Aragorn shrugged. "Like all the rest of us he'd been drafted into some form of work on repairs and improvements. For rest and reprieve, well - trust a wood-elf to know where to find a tree or two in city of stone. And then at night there are... there are certain directions from which one could get the breezes of the sea. He does not sleep." He tilted his head at Glorfindel thoughtfully, and there was something measuring about his look that reminded Glorfindel of Gimli.

"The one thing that finally convinced him to do so, was when I made mention of you."

Glorfinel's heart sped up, and he felt his mouth turn dry. It was his turn to ask, "You know...?"

"I've known him long," Aragorn said, "and deeply. I treasure him more than I can say. But I must admit – you came as a surprise. We walked together and stood beside each other on very, very dark days on the road to Mordor, you see. We both know to whom precious things ought be sent and letters written on behalf of each other, if the worst should come to pass. I was to write to Thranduil and to you. But I knew long before he said your name. He had no attachment to any material thing, but he asked to be burned or buried with this slip of paper he carried around everywhere."

Glorfindel himself carried the half to that sparse 'letter' on his person. It was on a pocket over his heart, and it felt as if it was burning his skin, in that moment.

_Meleth-nin_...

"I saw its contents," Aragorn said. "I'd peeled it bloody from his clothes whenever I had need to treat him now and again. You can bet your ears I've wiped it and dried it out on the sun for him a few times, and he'd demand it back at each waking."

Aragorn smiled and continued as he remembered fondly, "I recognized your hand immediately and how could I not? I grew up in Rivendell, and had my knuckles rapped once or twice by tutors disappointed in my consistent failure to emulate it. 'You could be a warrior like _hir-nin _Glorfindel and _still_ write well if only you applied yourself, Estel.' Your handwriting was the bane of my adolescence. Elrohir and Elladan's too, I understand."

"Apologies about the rapped knuckles," Glotfindel said with a soft smile of his own, and he looked down at the papers about. "I did not know about that. Nor did the punishment work, apparently – these are still quite deplorable."

Aragorn chuckled unapologetically.

"What did you say about me that convinced Legolas to sleep?" Glorfindel asked.

"That you wouldn't want to see him the way that he looked," Aragorn answered.

"I would have him in _any_ incarnation," Glorfindel said fervently.

Aragorn stared at him, and his stormy eyes shone with a wisdom that defied his years. He did not contest it but said, "I needed him to sleep. I merely took advantage of certain sensitivities."

Glorfindel stared at him thoughtfully, waited for him to elaborate.

Aragorn narrowed his eyes and nodded to himself, as if coming to a conclusion. "The calling of the sea has left him feeling... inadequate. He did not want to be seen until he was more himself, not by you nor by his people. Most anyone, really. We expected your traveling party to arrive later, it's how I got him to partake of the draught. He would have been more recovered by the time you got here."

"I rode ahead," Glorfindel said.

"And so here you are," Aragorn exhaled as he leaned back against one of the chairs. "My lord - _mellon-nin_ \- I confess I feel somewhat uncertain that I have allowed you in here."

Glorfindel's instinct was to feel indignation. As rightful owner of Legolas' affections, why should he be _allowed_ anywhere when he owned the right? But his years have taught him patience.

_Some, _he amended, Some_ patience_.

"He does not want to be seen until he is better," said Aragorn, "and my inclination is to follow his lead. It is the least I could do, after all. I brought him to this path. He was always fighting for what was good but he fought on the front of _my_ choosing because I asked it of him. Because I needed him. We would not be here if not for his friendship. But _he_ would not be suffering if not for mine. The price of his loyalty was – is – steep. My burden is lifted, his is just begun. How can I deny what he asks of me now, when it is so simple - that I help him appear well, for those he loves?"

Glorfindel realized then, that Aragorn – who had always been so self-sure in his handling of the elf – was now rendered hesitant by the Sea Calling that he felt was his fault.

"Gimli is of a different school of thought," Aragorn continued. "He said we must not hide our scars from those we love. The right ones will stay, and love that is true is constant."

"His thoughts have merit..."

"But to love is not static," Aragorn argued. "It is not a thing in isolation from the world. One loves _someone_. If that someone changes, how can love be constant when the object of it has changed..." Aragorn shook his head at himself. "I am sorry. I do not mean to sound as if I was testing you, or challenging your commitment."

_But he was, wasn't he?_ thought Glorfindel. This was the measuring eye Glorfindel had received from Gimli too.

Rumors have been swirling of the camaraderie that had formed amongst the Fellowship, of the kind of friendship it took for them to succeed against all odds. More would be known of their exploits in the coming days, but from these last two conversations, Glorfindel could already see the brotherhood they had forged in fire, and the devotion and protectiveness they had for each other. As surely as Gimli had stood at Gondor's gates and Aragorn at Legolas' door, they were both guarding their brother-in-arms the best way they knew how.

"But the truth is," said Aragorn, "When we are all of us gone – and that time will come as if it were the blink of an eye for an elf – if Legolas is no longer loved for what we inadvertently made him, he will be alone."

Stormy gray eyes watered in grief for this imagined end, and because Aragorn could love Legolas so, Glorfindel could forgive him anything, including his doubts.

"I've already cost him his beloved home," Aragorn said bitterly, "I might be costing him his health and sanity. That his loyalty to me should cost him love too... I cannot bear it, but that is immaterial. More importantly - he does not deserve it."

Glorfindel glanced at the sleeping elf in the room. Legolas was regaining some color, a slight flush on his cheeks. He had such _beauty_, even in its most impotent form - for unmoving on a bed and dead to the world he was dulled but still so attractive, and this was only the least of him.

_"__That you are the skilled and dutiful prince of a magnificent land," _Glorfindel had once told Legolas_, "That you are the fairest I have ever seen of our kin... all of this is nothing compared to the barest light of your soul. Do you understand what I am trying to say, Legolas? You carry with ease that which would make anyone lesser exceptional, for these are only the least of you..."_

"He did not want you to see him until he was more himself," Aragorn said into the sudden quiet. "I could not even give him that."

"It wouldn't be the first time he was defied for his own good," Glorfindel murmured. "I've done my share of defiance of his will. He forgives."

"After how long?" Aragorn asked, wryly, knowingly.

"A hundred years give or take."

Aragorn snorted. "Sounds about right." He stared at Glorfindel for a long moment. "Do you know – you haven't even asked me _how_ he has changed that we should worry for him so. You are just so... certain. Maybe the dwarf was right after all."

"He told me to tell you to take his wise counsel more seriously."

Aragorn smiled fondly.

"Love that is true is constant," Glorfindel murmured, echoing the words Gimli had given to Aragorn. "I cannot disagree with this. Legolas will always _have_ it from me. But love is not merely a noun, is it?"

Aragorn groaned good-naturedly. "Ah to be subject once again to all the perfection of the Lord Glorfindel-"

Glorfindel shook his head at the irreverent Estel in amusement. "Indulge me if you are still able, _Elessar_."

Aragorn snorted at him again, but dutifully quieted.

"It is also a verb," Glorfindel said, "a point of action. One loves _someone_ you said and people may change, yes. But love - as action - is just as dynamic. I would like to think – we can make each other better everyday, we can work to be happy everyday, we can choose each other everyday. Legolas will always have my love. And I will love him in the every day. They are different sentiments, but he is entitled to both."

Aragorn's eyes sparkled, now. They looked like jewels.

"The Lord Glorfindel is too far gone, it seems," he teased. "Elrohir and Elladan wouldn't believe me if I told them."

Glorfindel glanced again at the sleeping elf in the other room.

_You will always have my love._

_And I will love you in the every day_.

"Tell me this though," said Aragorn with a laugh, "How can you be so verbose and not be able to write more than two words on a love letter?"

**# # #**

Aragorn left Glorfindel – and Legolas' room as a veritable mess – when someone squealed on the King and he was quite politely but insistently drawn out and back to work. It had all the workings of a crafty dwarf's hand about it. Either way, Glorfindel was left alone with Legolas after Aragorn made his exit.

Before he left though, he told Glorfindel, meaningfully: "Take care of him." Gimli, Glorfindel remembered, had said the same.

Time stopped for a breathless moment, and Glorfindel thought all the past and present and the future met at the points marked by Estel's soulful eyes. The moment was _now, _but familiar as if it had happened before, and also foreboding because it was fated for the future.

_There is a saying, of seeing one's life flash before one's eyes_... But Glorfindel did not see his own life. He saw the life of Aragorn as if it had already been lived – longer than hoped, beautiful and brilliant and enriching to all around it but in the end, too short.

It was always going to be too short.

_Take care of him_...

And Glorfindel heard it said for now as well as for the future. He saw his wood-elf lost and forlorn with grief at the death of his friends and Aragorn's in particular. It was his main tether to the earth cut, and he was released unmoored. By that time he would have defied the calling of the Sea on behalf of mortal attachments for so long that the lines that held him were taut to breaking, until they just snapped.

There would be no gentle release.

By the time Legolas left the shores of Arda for the promised haven of the elves, he would have already been so steeped in the Sea that he was sick with it and smelled of it, and his eyes were unseeing glazed with it. He would be the final casualty of the War.

Glorfindel gazed at the sleeping _ellon_ on the bed, looking better indeed for the rest, even with the guarantee of his future misery.

_I will love you in the every day_, he resolved, more fervently than ever.

Glorfindel touched and brushed back the fine, golden hair, and he ensnared the cold, slack hands in his own.

They've been like this before, he remembered achingly. At the Woodmen Settlement over a century ago, he sat with a severely injured Legolas in wait for him to wake, too. That time, Legolas had been badly hurt yet still had the presence of mind to play possum to take stock of his situation first.

Today, when he stirred at Glorfindel's touch, his mind and soul took longer to respond than his body. His eyes opened but were blank and unseeing, and Glorfindel could swear he saw the Sea in them – they were not glacial blue anymore but swaying and stirring, deeper-hued. Tears streamed from them and Glorfindel felt it, the genuine struggle for the wood-elf's _fea _to return and align with where his _hroa_ physically was.

Legolas took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes, but he was more awake, just gathering himself. He felt _scattered_, in Glorfindel's senses. Where once Legolas was the gentle but irresistible dawn creeping inevitably up over the night, now he was like a broken mirror, its jagged pieces reflecting and throwing fractured light about everywhere.

"I want..." he murmured sleepily, "So badly... to stay..."

Glorfindel did not even know if Legolas meant he wanted to stay in Arda, or in his dreams of the Sea. He closed his eyes in pain at the other's torn state, but he scooted forward and onto the bed beside Legolas, facing him and curling over him, shielding him, as if Glorfindel could catch all the scattered pieces and keep them from drifting apart and away. Legolas didn't move, barely seemed to recognize Glorfindel was there.

He sought out Legolas' _fea_ determinedly.

The last time they were like this, he had found a seemingly bottomless well down which he threw torches of good memory and affection. What he found this time was a wide expanse of ocean stretching out north, west, east and south, front and back and on both sides, as far as the eye could see.

But even if this was opposite the closed dark well for its sheer boundlessness, it was unnerving and constricting in its own way. There were no markers of land. No fixed points for orientation to aid the senses and tell you where to go and where you've been. Everything was just near/distant horizon, and it was dizzying how sea mirrored the sky – you couldn't even tell up from down.

You weren't just lost here. You lost yourself, here.

"It's not quite like that," Glorfindel murmured gently, "Let me tell you of the Sea." He was uncertain if he said it aloud or thought it, only that somehow, Legolas heard him, and his interest was piqued.

In the imagery in Legolas' mind, Glorfindel added land behind for grounding – _Here you have friends who love you. When you leave, you will leave knowing this place was better, just because you once walked and toiled upon it. _

In this imagery, Glorfindel added a sun that rose and set, and a moon that forged a shimmering silver path from its reflection on the water. _This is the way forward to the haven promised us. You will carry burdens with you when you depart, but I promise there will also be wisdom and peace._

In this imagery, Glorfindel added stars. They shone in the sky and by reflection on the water. _Many parts of the journey will feel like flying, _Meleth. _We will be soaring_.

In this imagery, he added a personal fancy. A tall, slim, solitary tower on a rocky islet, flame-lit at the top. Waves crashed mightily against the rocks, but it stood tall and strong. The lighthouse, Glorfindel liked to think, was once pristine white, but had aged and now looked softer. Sea wind-worn but steadfast, it looked like it would stand for all time, to guide all seafarers away from danger.

Legolas sighed, and they both opened glistening eyes. Legolas looked up at Glorfindel curled over him and they gazed at each other's sheer _here_-ness.

Glorfindel reached forward and wiped the other's tears away, but the gesture defeated itself and only courted more. Legolas' chest heaved up and down with a wracking sob he struggled to stifle. When he failed, he hid his face in his hands and folded forward.

Glorfindel leaned over and shielded Legolas anew, even if he was shielding Legolas from his own eyes. He planted his cheek gently over the top of the golden head, and he waited. He could wait. He could always wait.

"They expect that human to run a country," Legolas said, voice muffled from his lowered face and beneath Glorfindel who held him, "and he couldn't follow a simple set of instructions."

The attempt at humor signaled to Glorfindel he could release the other. He leaned back, and Legolas lifted his tear-streaked face up to look at Glorfindel again. Neither of them acknowledged the weeping this time, and Legolas pulled away and pushed himself up to sit in bed. He turned sideways and leaned one shoulder against the elaborate headboard, so that he could look upon the other elf.

"He couldn't have kept me away even if he tried," Glorfindel told him. "Though I have been tasked by Gloin's son to inform you that this reunion is his doing more than anyone else's."

Legolas snorted, but his face softened quickly with fondness for both dwarf and man.

"I cannot fathom life without them now," he said, and Glorfindel knew there would be little to no case to make here, for an early departure beyond the Sea. But he still had to try.

"You will have to," Glorfindel said gently. "That is the way of things."

"I know," Legolas said. "One would think I'm an old hand at this. I am hardly a stranger to death."

"The calling of the Sea and the thievery of time during peace will complicate things," Glorfindel said. "This is uncharted territory. Can you really watch them die one after the other and continue to ignore the persistent call?"

"I was ready to lose them during the War, I was even willing to do the killing if I had to." Legolas shook his head. "This is... this is winning, believe it or not. I simply cannot leave until they are all lost to me. Time is short enough as it is. I will not cut it shorter myself."

"It is unheard of, Legolas. And perilous."

"I am learning that," said the other elf. "But the converse is unfathomable. I will have them, while I can."

"It will hurt. Very, very badly."

"I will survive it." Legolas looked away. "You know this. I am always the one who lives at the end. It is early still, I can learn. I will learn."

"But what will be left?" Glorfindel asked.

Legolas stared at him, and his eyes watered anew. "That is what I'm afraid of... that the best of me should be lost and none left for you."

"I do not ask for myself," Glorfindel clarified. "I would have even the barest strand of your hair, if you would honor me with it."

Legolas' lips quirked with a tremulous smile.

"I ask for _you_," Glorfindel said. "What will be left _for you_?"

"I almost don't care," Legolas answered breathily, bit with a wave of his royal hand. "I just want to sate my heart with those I love. And if you would still have me at the end, I am yours for ever."

"You're already mine for ever," Glorfindel said simply. "I ask for _you_. And I need you to care, because I do."

Legolas sighed. "At any rate I've already decided. And I've already given my word."

"I spoke with Aragorn," Glorfindel said. "I know for a fact he has released you from it."

"That's not how it works."

"Sure it is," Glorfindel argued. "He owns your promise, he can release you from it."

"You promise to love me but I am unworthy," Legolas said. "I release you from it. Are you really freed? Promises are made not only to those we address, but to ourselves."

Glorfindel frowned in displeasure at the sensible analogy he could not contest, and the sense of unworthiness that he simply had to.

"You are not unworthy, Legolas."

"It was hypothetical," said the other wryly. "Neither are you released or freed of me, if that wasn't clear."

Glorfindel refused to be charmed, even when his heart warmed. He stifled a smile, and played one of his last few cards.

"You father will be very unhappy to see you suffering."

Legolas groaned. "He knows?"

Glorfindel shrugged. "He is beside himself with worry for it."

"He is never beside himself about anything."

"Except things that concern you," Glorfindel pointed out.

Legolas lifted his knees up to his chest and hugged his legs defensively. "I should have been given the right to tell him myself."

"He nearly set off running here when we were told by Lady Galadriel," Glorfindel said. "But you know how the situation remains in your home. Recovery efforts are still underway. He himself is well, save for worrying about you."

"I suppose some time away will help me get my bearings before facing him," Legolas murmured, "It is just as well. Though I must admit – I miss him. I did not think I would be away so long when I set off for Rivendell."

"I bear you a letter from Thranduil," Glorfindel said. He rose from his place on the bed and walked to a nearby table, where he had placed the effects he had with him when he sat by Legolas' bed. He reclaimed the chair and handed the prince a sealed document, indulging in the sweet sight of Legolas unfolding before him, smiling again, and receiving the letter with open, utmost delight. The prince clutched his father's letter to his chest before laying it gently on the bed by his hip.

"Correspondence of personal nature were entrusted to me," Glorfindel revealed. "The rest of your Kingdom's party will arrive soon and issue you the formal missives from your _aran_, to go with the official reports they mean to present to you on the status of your home. Furthermore, as the Elvenking's representative, I believe you are scheduled to attend foreign affairs and trade briefings with your people, so that you can helm meetings with dignitaries expected to be in attendance for Elessar's wedding. You are tasked with re-establishing political, economic and military ties lost during the War, and perhaps make new ones."

Legolas rubbed a hand over his face wearily. "Thank the gods Aragorn convinced me to sleep. But what I would pay to have a sip of Rossenith's stimulant brew."

He threw aside the blankets, showing he wore nothing but a long, thin sleeping shirt beneath. He then swung his strong legs to the side of the bed where Glorfindel sat and planted bare feet on the ground. Their knees touched. He placed his elbows on them, and rested his chin on his palms as he looked up at Glorfindel with owlish eyes. He blinked himself to better wakefulness, and looked mildly overwhelmed.

"Your _adar_ wanted me to evaluate and ask, privately in all honesty – are you up for all of it?"

Legolas snorted – his expression reminded Glorfindel of Aragorn's, for a moment. "Of course I'm up for it. Oropher built a kingdom and went to war. Thranduil picked up its pieces after becoming an orphan. All that Legolas is tasked with is to sit on his arse."

"You've done a heck of a lot more than that 'til now," Glorfindel pointed out, "and even this new task is hardly a small one. It is kingly work."

Legolas sighed impatiently. "I'm up for it," he snapped, and in profound irritation rose to his feet abruptly to prove his point.

But he swayed. Days of sleeplessness and a scant few hours on one's back under the influence of one of Estel's foul draughts tended to do that. Glorfindel, used to the Rivendell-learned concoction and the stubborn elven warriors usually subject to them, was prepared. He caught the prince with practiced ease.

Legolas dizzily saw the perverse humor in it. He ended up nestled in Glorfindel's sure, strong arms.

"Not the outcome I intended clearly," he murmured with a sleepy smile, "But perhaps a better one."

Glorfindel's arms tightened around him impulsively, reminded again of the depth of the other's tender value. He looked down upon the weary, lined but still fine face, and searched it for signs of other concerning hurts.

But Legolas' gaze took on a sudden clarity. He sniffed at the air and pressed his lips together thoughtfully. In their proximity, he was _smelling_ Glorfindel.

"I know the smell of that poultice," he said, scrambling free of his rescuer in sudden alarm, with a surge of energy powered by his concern. He all but wrestled Glorfindel to sit on the bed, and he settled beside the older warrior heavily upon it while he patted at Glorfindel's clothes in search of the injury that he knew without a shadow of the doubt would be hidden there.

The ancient warlord jerked away from Legolas when the younger elf found the padding of bandages on his left arm, extending from shoulder to elbow. He backed away from Legolas and held him gently, calming, but an arm's length away.

"It is widely used for burns in the Woodland," Legolas said anxiously. "The Battle Under the Trees... I heard there was a lot of fire. You must have gotten burnt..."

"Hardly anyone ever emerges from such things unscathed, Legolas," Glorfindel said. "The wound is old and healing."

It was true, for the most part. He did not say that he nearly lost the limb. He did not say he nearly died before recovering. He did not say that the burn still throbbed at times and that at its worst, had felt so viciously familiar to Glorfindel's tragic history, that he thought his mind would crumble with it.

Legolas stared at him, understanding by instinct perhaps, for he looked threadbare, on edge, unwilling or unable yet to be calmed. His warrior's braids were undone, and he was literally and figuratively disarmed in his thin sleeping clothes. He trembled slightly, and the sea and sleeplessness stirred in his eyes.

His _fea_ was casting fragmented light around everywhere.

Along the length of their conversation, Legolas had displayed both the warrior prince that Glorfindel knew, and the Sea-strained Silvan he was rapidly becoming more acquainted with. Seeing Legolas somewhat... _fractured_... stung, but Glorfindel had meant what he said:

_I would have you in any incarnation..._

_That you are the skilled and dutiful prince of a magnificent land, that you are the fairest I have ever seen of our kin... all of this is nothing compared to the barest light of your soul. You carry with ease that which would make anyone lesser exceptional, for these are only the least of you..._

_I would have even the barest strand of your hair, if you would honor me with it._

"I am well," Glorfindel assured him. "I am well and after everything, _meleth_, somehow against the odds we are both here. This is winning." Glorfindel echoed what Legolas had said earlier. They both knew – all the survivors of great wars carried a myriad of scars.

"This is winning," Legolas agreed softly.

Glorfindel reached forward and touched Legolas' face. The younger elf still stared at him with haunted eyes, but leaned into the touch and only then, calmed. He closed his eyes.

"I can face them, all of them," Legolas murmured. "I just need a moment. I promise you my lord, I won't always be like this. I know it. I will be improved, with time. I am a fast learner."

As he spoke his words created feathery huffs of breath on Glorfindel's palm. They felt like the wings of butterflies.

"I will stand with you anywhere you want to be," Glorfindel found himself promising. "I will not tear you from your mortal attachments any more than I would wish to alter your steadfast heart... for I too, am a beneficiary of its generous loving."

Legolas smiled, and the change in the shape of his face from the expression, Glorfindel felt in his hand too: the prominent, chiseled cheekbone widening and pressing against his skin.

Legolas opened his eyes. "I am in your hands, it seems."

"And I, wrapped about your little finger," Glorfindel said with a laugh.

"You sent me a vision," Legolas said softly, "Just a while ago. The tall tower at the Sea, with the golden flame at the top."

Glorfindel tilted his head at the forest-sheltered Silvan prince. As learned and as experienced as Legolas undoubtedly was, the Sea and its navigation was probably not part of the curriculum there. The calling was too perilous to stir...

"The lighthouse," Glorfindel said.

"Yes," Legolas brightened. "The lighthouse. I was reading up on navigation at Aragorn's expansive libraries here... until he and Gimli caught me, that is. I got a grilling from the dwarf and Aragorn was silent but looked both repentant and anxious and I couldn't stand either of it, so I stopped. That man cannot hide anything, and Gimli does not bother to try..." he shook his head at his friends in fondness, before remembering his original line of thought. "The lighthouse. It reminds me of you."

"Tall and gold-headed."

Legolas chuckled, but looked at him tenderly. "Yes, but strong and sure. And you cannot stop the Seas and the storms, but you will keep me from danger, I know it."

He reached for Glorfindel, touching first his neck – the older elf's pulse jumped there – and then drifting down to his collarbone, and then his chest over his heart. Legolas frowned thoughtfully, feeling the paper there, knowing it for what it was: his cherished, non-letter.

_Meleth-nin_.

"Aragorn told me you had thrown yours away," Glorfindel teased, with a straight face.

"Of course I have," Legolas matched him, blinking innocently. "Yours is still with you?"

"It will stay with me always," Glorfindel told him, turning serious now. "_I_ will stay with you. Always."

"You will stay with me," Legolas said, with earnest certainty.

The past, the present, the future... they collided again. _The moment was now, but familiar as if it had happened before, and also fated for the future..._

It was the first thing he had ever said to Glorfindel, he remembered, and said in almost the exact same way. Seemingly a lifetime ago, beneath the then-benighted boughs of Mirkwood, Glorfindel lay dying and alone. But then Legolas came, irrepressible as the dawn, beautiful and insistent, and oh so very sure:

_You will stay with me, my Lord Glorfindel_.

_There is a saying, of seeing one's life flash before one's eyes_... and this time, Glorfindel did indeed see his own as if it had already been lived: Legolas was his past, his present, his future – his forever.

_You are mine forever._

_You are my forever._

"I will stay with you," Glorfindel echoed.

Legolas' stormy gaze settled, and he smiled languidly, and it was the gentle, joyous herald to a bright, new day.

**THE END**

April 4, 2020

* * *

**AFTERWORD**

* * *

**I. Acknowledgments**

**A. MASSIVE THANKS to all the kind reviewers, most of whom are regular reviewers:**

3326freespirit, AJS, Alanic, Alexandrion, Alli, AnImaginist, Aqua Fortis, AraneltheSilvan, BBC, Beccissss, Bkcbookworm, cheetahluke, Dragon of East, dreamgoneby, earthdragon, Eaze, emanuelamayrahl, Emjb, firepoppies, ForeverRainingFire, Halatir, HappyCoolios, Hawaiichick, Honoria Granger, Iamsmol, Idrils Scribe, Ingu, Jaya Avendel, Kimic Thranduilion, lastseventh, Makanie, Malleus Beneficarum, Marie, Ninde, Nurayy, NorthKai, Nymiriel, pandorias, power and glory, Rosenthorne (you have an enviably cool name, btw), Ruiniel, SachaSacha, Shenkoyr, Starfox500, SuicidalQueen, Teaabitz, THiaLieN, Tisa-Tisa, Tobiramamara, triolet, Unnamed Element, ValTremblay, Violet, well, wenduo, and of course, all unnamed and unsigned guests.

I will try to do individualized responses within the next few weeks, but for now I would just like to say – thank you for being so generous with your time and thoughts. We are all going through something given the events of our world, so community and kindness are important in all forms we can give and take them. **Thank you**, from the bottom of my heart thank you, and stay safe!

**B. An Important Response to One Unsigned Review: '..._clearly English is not your first language.'_**

The comment left me reeling as few others have in over a decade of writing on this site, and I wish I was given an opportunity to respond privately, but I suppose it is also important to address this publicly.

It's true, English is just one of several languages I'm familiar with. I implore all English-as-second-language folks like me, who may get a review like this not to get discouraged. Fan Fiction is one of the best ways for language improvement; this is why I do not delete old stories or bad comments, even if I find myself cringing sometimes when I look back :)

We are all growing here - as writers, readers, reviewers and as people learning community, productivity and kindness. The comment above, for example, could have been phrased less recklessly (lest it discourage the writer, rather than providing points for improvement). But the reviews won't always be good – and dealing with them is growing up too.

To the unsigned reviewer, good luck on all your endeavors, and I hope the world brings you honest feedback geared toward improvement and delivered with kindness for your own craft (whatever it may be). And I continue to sincerely welcome your reviews on anything I write, if you feel so inclined. I would just request a metaphorically lighter foot on the gas pedal ;)

* * *

**II. The Next Project**

I mentioned taking a break from Fan Fiction to try and make an honest go of my original works, so I might still post a fic here and there (including old ones I've never posted or short new ones), but I do not at this time see myself working on anything as committed as _Your Light in the Dark_.

This would have been **Story #75** (I have a fixation for nice-sounding, round-type numbers), but I abandoned it about 70 pages in:

**Working Title: Ghost Town**

**_Summary: _**_Trust and friendship are hard won in times of conflict. Legolas follows his father's advice to seek out Strider and the Rangers, but finds he has to pay his dues first before he can be accepted as a brother-in-arms. _

It is **a stand-alone "sequel" to the currently posted _Misfire _**(or more accurately _Misfir_e is an intro to it). It is currently several chapters long, but will remain that way for a long time. I began it all the way back in September of last year and have no plans of continuing it for the foreseeable future because it's about a plague – not something I am comfortable writing anymore, what with the new coronavirus ravishing our planet.

The inspiration came from an entry called "The Great Plague" in one of those Tolkien companion books. I open it to random pages every once in a while, and this entry about a virus that went around Middle Earth and decimated many populations was like a prompt that wouldn't release me.

I researched on the topic, and was even more inspired to write after I read about the real-life sacrifices of a Derbyshire village called Eyam in the 1660s. Ravished by plague, they quarantined themselves to save other communities.

Anyways, it will be unfinished for the foreseeable future. **Part of Chapter 1** is posted below though, for the curious:

* * *

# # #

**1: Ghost Town**

# # #

It was a once well-trodden path, freshly reclaimed by nature perhaps just in the last year or so. The grass is patchy and thin on a narrow winding way between the thick trees and wilder growths that lined it on its left and right. The path led to an ancient bridge that crossed a narrow, rushing river which marked the boundaries of the small human village of Marksmans Mead.

The Rangers of the North have not been by since the pervious year. There was not much use for them here, because the isolated little homestead needed little defending compared to the other areas of Eriador that demanded their protection. Marksmans Mead, after all, had been named for the aging, sharp-eyed veteran soldiers and their families – including healthy, strapping, well-trained sons - who had founded it. It was a small but self-sustaining community not desirous of the help or company of strangers.

But their sudden, complete silence over the last few months was anomalous and necessitated inspection.

"The population was in decline last we were here," Halbarad, one of the senior-most lieutenants in the current company of 30 men, said from where he rode on his mighty horse beside their Chieftain. He and Strider, as the Chieftain was commonly known, were apparently of the same line of thought.

"It looks perhaps as if the village just died away," Halbarad went on. "It happens."

"I hope that is indeed all there is to this," said Strider. He looked as formidable as the company he commanded, but his gray eyes were particularly heavy with wisdom and burden. "I see no traces of combat that would suggest they were overcome by aggressors."

"The older men must have passed on," Halbarad said with a nod, "and the younger ones off to the cities or the wilds to chase their own fates. If they were in real peril, Strider, they would have found a way to ask aid from us."

The Rangers were of the Dunedain, and as remnants of the great Kingdom that once ruled over the land now-known as Eriador, they continued in their guardianship of the territory in small companies such as that which now currently made its way to Marksmans.

It was a thankless job. Their mandate of protecting their former lands was seldom known and when known, not always well received. Many people were fearful and distrustful of them, including the people of Marksmen who the previous year had told the Rangers they needed no watching and had things well in hand on their own.

Today's visit was just part of the Rangers' efforts to look in on the various communities of Eriador once in a while, especially when reports from their network of scouts and spies indicated anomalous activities. And of Marksmans Mead, the anomaly was indeed a strange one-

No one had been heard from in the small village for months.

The company rode forward at a cautious but leisurely pace, until a wordless signal - made from the very front and passed down along the line of Rangers to where Halbarad and Strider held the rear - bid them to stop.

"Stay here," Strider commanded of Halbarad. "I will see what this is about."

Strider spurred his horse forward, passing the line of men until he reached to where they stopped at the front.

"Your scout called for a halt," said Garthon, the man at the head of the line. There was a wry tone to his voice, a sort of editorial which made Strider wince. The scout at the moment was their latest addition, the elf who went simply by 'Legolas of the Woodland Realm.' Strider's foster brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, however, had taken him into confidence and said this elf was actually the Prince of Mirkwood, apparently sent by his father the Elvenking out for his own time in the wilds.

"The gods know what it is this time," Garthon added with a smirk.

The elf had been their scout before, and was known to steer them this way and that away from some threat or for a better position on an assault. All too often all they had was his word to go by, for in some instances only he could detect the precise position of the enemy. Unfortunately for him, his word was not completely trusted by the company yet. He was new to a group wary and distrustful to begin with, and 'Legolas of the Woodland Realm' helped his cause little by being so reticent with details of his own life.

"Either that wood-elf has the most extraordinary senses in all of Arda," said Garthon, "Or we are all being played for fools, running around in circles like a headless warg. Or your new acquisition has lost his thrice-damned mind and is dragging us all around with him."

Garthon, of course, was of the latter opinion and had been vocal of it. He was highly confident of his own tracking and scouting skills, and was skeptical he would have missed anything that some elf would catch.

"He is from the Woodland, Garthon," Strider said mildly, trying not to let his own skepticism show. He'd had this conversation before with others, ever since the elf joined them a few months past. Not to mention - Strider too was confident of his own skills and was unsure he would have missed things the wood-elf did not.

"They see and hear better, long and constantly besieged by the enemy and so better able to sense them and so on and so forth," Garthon said tiredly. "Tell you what else I know of wood-elves - paranoid as hell."

Strider appeased him with his hands. "I will see what this is about."

"Promptly if you please, Chieftain," Garthon said, "I'm an old man. These bones and this arse are not what they were and Marksmans will have some form of shelter for a rest, methinks. Abandoned or not- a roof over our heads after so long in the wind would be of some relief."

"You know I live to please you," Aragorn murmured. It had the desired effect.

Garthon had the grace to look ashamed. "I am sorry, Strider. There's no good dealing with this tired old man."

"You're not that old," Strider said with a bark of laughter.

He was used to Garthon. The most senior member of their company was a tough customer but once won, would go to the ends of the world with you. The Chieftain spurred his horse a little ways forward and off the weathered road, to where Legolas of the Woodland Realm's unrestrained horse milled about near its master beneath thick foliage.

Strider found the golden elf squatting on the ground, huddled with the dark-haired twins of Imladris over what looked to be a long-dead body leaning against a tree. He winced in dismay and kept his distance. He was hardly the queasy type, but the others had the situation well in hand and messy tasks were things he could _always_ happily yield to his older foster brothers.

The corpse was dry and withered from the sun. But its clothes still had color and not too badly tattered. This death had occurred only within the year.

"This is the cause of death," Elrohir proclaimed, touching the end of a deadfall branch - none of them touched the corpse with their bare hands - to two arrows protruding from the body's back. The shafts were well-made, military grade, not atypical of the output of the soldierly men of Marksmans Mead. The eagle-eyed aim was also not atypical; the dead man was likely on the run and in the cover of the trees, but the hits were fatal.

"He could not have lived more than a few minutes after getting shot," Elrohir continued. He looked over the dead man's shoulder, in the direction of the very village they were about to visit.

"What do you think?" Elladan asked, looking first at his pensive twin, and then at Strider. The Imladris elf was solicitous of Legolas, but not yet in the habit of valuing their new addition's opinion, Strider noted. He could not help but wonder though, if they perhaps should. The corpse was freeze dried out, had no discernable scent, and by now had left no tracks. How Legolas of the Woodland Realm managed to detect him here, off-road over thick foliage, meant either luck or skill indeed.

"Criminal on the run?" Strider surmised.

"But if he was important enough to shoot down, why wouldn't anyone have checked to see if their aim was true?" countered the wood-elf. "There is something more to this."

"Do you think it was murder, Legolas?" asked Elrohir.

Strider had noticed that in the last few weeks - for one reason or another – Elrohir no longer harbored the same reservations Elladan and Strider had in dealing with the Mirkwood Prince. It was quite the reversal for just before that, Elrohir had been not only been wary of the wood-elf, but at points downright antagonistic. Something had happened between them, something Strider was yet to understand.

"I don't know," Legolas said. "But if it were so simple, then someone from the settlement should have come across this body at some point before it got in this state, and had it removed and properly buried. Yet they left it here like this. I believe something larger is amiss, something to do with the village. I just do not know-" he paused, and tilted his head to listen at something or perhaps, nothing. "It is too quiet. This proximity to any settlement would never be so quiet. And there is nothing of the usual scents of life – smoke, food, waste, domesticated animals... nothing."

"Well that is precisely why we are here," said Strider, "to determine why silence has befallen Marksmans Mead."

"Perhaps we shouldn't enter the settlement from the front," Elrohir said thoughtfully.

"I don't know, brother," said Elladan. "One does not sneak up on the men here. If they catch us, we will wear out our welcome or worse, we may get an unintended skirmish in our hands. That is the last thing we want in this particular situation, for they are skilled, they will fight to the death, and we will be handicapped by our restraint. There will almost certainly be bloodshed."

Strider bit his lip in thought. "We'll send a small reconnaissance out toward the village to observe discreetly. The rest of us are to find a defensible spot in the woods beyond their bounds and stand down there until further orders."

"I wish to volunteer for the scouting," said the wood-elf.

"Of course you do," Elrohir said wryly.

"I mean no offense but you will be too... _foreign_... for the folk here if you should run into anyone," said Strider. "They are distrustful enough, without being suddenly faced with an elf. If you get spotted-"

"That is unlikely," Legolas said with calm certainly.

"Nevertheless you must not underestimate these men," Elrohir advised. "Some are as capable as elves in the defense of their lands, Legolas. And these are hardened soldiers."

The wood-elf was displeased, but was also of a mind to get along better with his new comrades. "If that is your command, Strider. It is your company after all."

"It is," said the young Chieftain with finality.

**# # #**

**# # #**

The reconnaissance group comprised of the hardy and older Garthon (who was in a rush to get to the village), a slightly built and fleet-footed young Ranger named Nimmon, and a powerful fighter named Pelamndir, who was mute. They went off the path and took to the trees, to make their way to the side boundaries of Marksmans Mead for intelligence gathering.

In the meantime, the rest of the group settled in at a makeshift camp amid the trees. Legolas and another new member of the group, a young man named Lannor, were assigned the unpopular chore of burying the body that Legolas found, and so they were a ways away from everyone else. They were partly obscured by the trees, but Strider could see from where he sat tending his weapons that they've already moved a tall pile of soil. It was mostly due to Legolas, who was digging with vigor. Lannor helped of course, but would stop often to catch his breath, wipe at the sweat on his face, or gape at his tireless companion.

"For a prince he is remarkably proficient at burying bodies," Halbarad said from beside Strider, who winced. 'Legolas of the Woodland Realm's' real identity was not for wider knowledge.

"And for a group that prides itself on secrecy," Strider commented with a grimace, "someone's been keeping a loose tongue. Who told you?"

Halbarad shrugged; he was not going to answer and he found it irrelevant. "We keep secrets from the world – not from each other. I hope they are doing it properly. They sure are making quick work of that grave. The ground here is quite hard."

"Wood-elves look lithe but they are very strong," Strider said. "I would give Legolas and young Lannor the benefit of the doubt for something that should otherwise matter little to us, except that you distrust him so much."

"All I'm saying is they are making quick work of something that should have been very hard to do," came the cautious reply. "That elf is too good at burying bodies."

"Let's put it this way," Strider said wryly, "Thranduil's folk do not quite come in standard issue for a bunch of elves. You've heard the tales."

Halbarad pressed his lips together grimly. "One more reason to distrust him. But what of it if I should feel this way? I am supposed to. Your line is thin and short, Strider. We are tasked with its maintenance. I am not the only one wary of a stranger's presence among us at this important juncture of your life."

Strider sighed. "We've discussed this many times before." He was weary of defending the lonely wood-elf's position in the company. "From the start he has shown his worth. What does he need to do to prove himself to you?"

"The better question," Halbarad pointed out, "is what does he need to do to prove himself to _you_. And then we follow, as we always have."

**# # #**

**# # #**

_They met his arrows first, before they met the wood-elf himself._

_The end of a skirmish found the Dunedain victorious, and amongst the orc bodies they were piling to burn, were deaths caused by deep-hued, orange-gold fletched arrows of exquisite make. The men retrieving them for re-use were puzzled for it belonged to none of them. _

_Strider had suspected they had a silent helper in their midst during the fighting, but was too occupied then to address it while the battle raged. There was someone in the fringes, sending whistling bolts of incredible accuracy around their heads. When the battle was done, he called for this mysterious figure to come forward from hiding. He was met by silence until one of his brothers looked at the shafts, and called for "Legolas of the Woodland Realm" to show his face._

_Legolas made an impressive entrance, this golden elf that emerged from the trees as if they parted for him. How he managed such camouflage with his glowing visage, striking hair and powerful figure was beyond any of their knowing. He was tall and lithe, and he cut a dangerous sight with his warrior's braids, battle-worn leathers and scale armor in the shape of cascading leaves. The shafts on the half-empty quiver resting upon his back matched those recovered from the orc corpses, and the leather straps securing them on his person also held sheathed, twin knives._

_Strider did not know then that he was a prince, but when he found out later, the blonde's noble bearing made sense. Legolas did not introduce himself as such and for the purposes of security, Elrond's sons followed his lead. It was only later, when the Chieftain and his foster brothers privately deliberated Legolas' request to travel with the company, that Elladan and Elrohir would reveal it._

_"Wood-elves seldom venture forth from their Realm, everyone knows this," Strider said. "They are also notoriously sparse with sharing their warriors, and -one would imagine- especially a soldier with skills like this. While I appreciate his aid thus far and have no doubt of his usefulness, I cannot help but wonder at his presence here, so soon after my path has been revealed to me by _adar_. We cannot just trust anyone."_

_The twins glanced at each other in that conspirational way of theirs, and Strider sighed at the silent conversation he could by biology play no part in, no matter how inclusive the twins were of their adopted human._

_"He isn't just anyone," Elladan said cautiously. "Legolas is the Elvenking's only child. That he should be sent out into the wilds in search of you is a mystery to us also, but perhaps that is something we can discover along the way. Let him ride with us for now, and we will keep an eye on him."_

_"He makes my back itch," Strider said wryly. "I would hate to be hit by friendly fire, if you get my meaning."_

_"If that particular wood-elf wanted any of us dead we would be so by now," Elladan pointed out. "But your caution is wise, brother. Worry not. We shall endeavor to keep him well in front of you at all times. At any rate, no matter his motivations, he is unescorted and seemingly troubled besides. I am disinclined to send away Thranduil's only son and heir on his own in this state."_

_"I concur," Elrohir said easily, "it wouldn't be wise. But let us send word to _adar_ of this most intriguing development as soon as we are able. He will offer us some enlightenment – there will be considerable delay in safely exchanging such messages of course, but one would think the three of us can look after ourselves well enough against a single wood-elf until then."_

_"I admit I am curious as to the Prince's presence here, myself," Elladan said. "His grandfather Oropher was reckless, his father Thranduil wary and reclusive. Legolas, on the other hand, is an unknown quantity. He is a rare sighting beyond the Woodland, you know, seldom allowed out by his warring duties and his father's reservations about outside engagement. We've met him previously of course – Thranduil relies upon him often for messengering and diplomacy - but he always kept to his people and among them, also seemed reserved." He chuckled self-deprecatingly, "I would keep him around even if only to satisfy my irrepressible _Noldor_ curiosity and pursuit of knowledge."_

_"At any rate," Elrohir added matter-of-factly, "if we send him away and he gets into trouble, I don't want to be the one to tell the Elvenking we were the last ones to see his only child alive." _

**# # #**

**# # #**

_"The better question is," Halbarad had pointed out, "What does he need to do to prove himself to you? And then we follow, as we always have."_

Strider frowned. He'd been wary of having Legolas in their company, of course he had. But he thought he was putting up a good front of having a measure of trust. He'd been pressed into defending Legolas' place repeatedly, after all.

"I trust him enough," Strider murmured thoughtfully.

"He is handy in a fight though, I can give him that," said Halbarad. "Every skirmish since his arrival has been dramatically easier. But he still makes my back itch."

The distinct phrasing was familiar, and Strider realized he'd said it to the twins at some point or other, and perhaps had been heard by the others. He resolved then to do better. As a leader, he was aware he could set the tone, and he did not think it would help them much to isolate the wood-elf prince anymore than he already was as a foreign newcomer to the group.

"Which is why we always keep him in the front," Strider said jokingly, even if it was true. "And you and my brothers always watch out for me."

"It seems as if he'd won the ornery one over, though."

Strider's brows raised at the realization that he was not the only one to notice. He masked his surprise with a chuckle.

"Ah, Elrohir?"

"I thought there was going to be another kinslaying after that incident with Elladan," said the other man, "and yet they found their way through somehow."

"That is because Legolas proved blameless," Aragorn pointed out.

He remembered the incident only too well. Legolas was recovering from injury and out of commission when a battle broke out. He was sidelined, and Elladan soon followed him on the outskirts of the fighting field when the Imladris elf received a grievous arrow wound. They suspected the arrow had nicked an artery, and so they kept the shaft where it was and demanded Elladan keep perfectly still and out of danger until he could be properly treated. The consequence of movement was exsanguination.

But sometime along the course of the fighting, the arrow in Elladan's body was pulled out. At first the blame went to Legolas. Many in the company believed the wood-elf overstepped his eagerness to help and overestimated his healing prowess when he attempted to tend Elladan on his own. The Imladris elf nearly did die and in too many ways, Legolas' own life also fell into danger under Elrohir's murderous anger.

Elladan healed and the truth gradually came to light. The arrow had been pulled out of his body and used to fell a strategically-positioned orc archer who would have killed many in the company. Though it was Legolas who had made the (_admittedly exceptional_) shot, it was Elladan who had pulled it from his own body - he had endangered himself.

The twins and especially Elrohir have since been quick to emphasize Legolas' innocence. But the incident made a few painful things all too clear: the men had been quick to judge, and they did not trust or value him. And the princely Legolas refused to bother trying to endear himself to ungrateful, suspicious men who found him undependable. The damage had been done.

Halbarad shrugged. "And so he is. But at the end of the day – we still do not know what he wants and why he is here. He has been with us for months now and given away nothing."

"We are all of us here for reasons of our own," Strider said evenly. He knew some of why Legolas was here and it staved back some of his own reservations. The wood-elf had taken injury a few weeks past and was delirious. From his fevered ranting did Strider realize the wood-elf was fleeing a broken heart and strained relations with his father. Strider could readily relate, not that he had ever breached the topic with the wood-elf when Legolas finally healed enough for more lucidity. The knowledge was too intimate between strangers; he doubted the elf even knew he had spoken of his situation, and Strider was content not to broach the subject.

"You do not force anyone here to divulge their reasons, do you?" he pointed out. "Then you should let him share his, in his own time."

Most of the men in the company were there due to their lineage as Dunedain and the duties it carried. He knew some the younger ones sought adventure and heroism. His foster-brothers Elladan and Elrohir were there first for their love of him, but inextricably also to sate some of their bloodlust after the harm brought to their mother some years past. They wished to channel their anger to the productive use of protecting other free peoples and Strider and the Dunedain were all too happy to have them. As for Strider himself, he was there to learn and improve so that one day, he could be both ready, deserving and willing to take on the responsibilities expected of his blood.

"He can probably hear us by the way," Strider said wryly.

"Maybe I mean for him to," Halbarad said tightly, though he did lower voice by a fraction (_not that it helps much_). "He should know he is being watched carefully. Maybe it will deter him from actions against you."

"I would worry more about Elrohir likely hearing you too," Strider teased. "Ornery elves have great hearing that can parallel that of their wood-elf cousins."

"Damn it all!" the other hissed.

Strider laughed.

**# # #**

**# # #**

By the time Legolas and Lannor finished with their gruesome assignment, most of the group was on a cautious move toward the main entry into Marksmans Meade.

The scouting team had returned earlier and reported that they found literally _no one_. Apparently, the small village had become a ghost town.

Half the company stayed at the temporary camp in the woods as a lookout and to watch the horses, while the other half made their way down the path toward the settlement on foot.

Legolas and Lannor had just concluded the burial of the unknown man when the group started to move. They washed their hands with the contents of their water skins, but Lannor did so hurriedly and half-heartedly, to catch up with the other novices near the head of the procession. He quickly abandoned the wood-elf beside him. Lannor fell into step with his friends easily. They took him into their fold and even offered him a shared drink of water to replace that which he had lost washing. He earned some joshing and pats on the back for his exertions.

Legolas continued to wash his hands as he contemplated his options. He was unsure as to which group he should join – the half proceeding into the empty village, or the half staying behind at camp with the horses. For a long moment he stood on the side of the road as a number of Rangers walked past him, among them the twin sons of Elrond. No one invited him to walk with them, nor told him what to do.

Legolas knew which assignment he wanted of course – he wanted to see what had happened to the village. But the Rangers were walking in a loosely cautious formation that looked familiar to all of them, and he was not certain he could just step forward and walk alongside anyone.

When their young leader Strider came up to follow the others, he noticed Legolas standing uncertainly on the side of the path. Their eyes met, and he stopped walking and motioned for the wood-elf to walk in the space in front of him.

Legolas wasn't sure if Strider did it because he was being gracious, or if it was because – as he had overheard Strider and Halbarad discussing earlier and many times before that – he did not trust Legolas enough to have the wood-elf at his back. Either way, Legolas took the offered space and walked right in front of Strider toward Marksmans Mead.

It was a short road from where they camped, opening up to a small clearing and a riverbank. The water was narrow, relatively shallow and quiet, but swift and so, likely treacherous even with just a little rain. In fair weather, any strong pair of legs would be able to traverse it with little effort, as now. It was winter calm, and so the only problem is that it would be brutally cold. They had no choice at any rate, for the bridge into Marksmans Mead was damaged and could not be crossed.

Legolas watched the men ahead of him step into the water one by one, and land on the opposite bank before disappearing into the trees surrounding the village. He stretched out his senses and there was really seemingly nothing left of the settlement beyond – no sound of speech or movement, no smell of food or human waste or livestock. It wouldn't be the first lost village he'd ever come across in his life or even in the short time since the Rangers allowed him to ride with them in their missions across Eriador. Some populations, especially in these tumultuous times, simply died out as people moved to less dangerous or less remote locations for safety and provisions.

He stepped into the water himself. It was ice cold, seeping quickly past his thin boots and breeches to his skin. He did not have a liking for – not that he had he been offered – the hardier wares of the reclusive, clannish Dunedain that would have given him better protection.

His eyes drifted almost casually upon the broken bridge. It was good, solid, aged and weather-worn stone, built from a thick pack of river rocks and meant to withstand not only the ravages of a swollen river but also the boulders and fallen logs the water almost certainly would have brought downstream with it in stormy weather. It looked like it's withstood the elements for centuries.

There was something odd about it in Legolas' observant eye, and he realized suddenly, why. It would never have been broken down by time, especially if the last known activity from Marksmans Mead was just over the past year.

Someone had intentionally broken the bridge.

When he strained his eyes and looked closer, the jagged marks upon the edges that were broken showed the intentional use of tools.

"Halt!" he hollered, so that the whole company could hear. He'd used a tone he hadn't voiced since he left the Woodland – that of a prince, that of a military commander. He was a stranger here and had determined to try to get along with these reluctant, distrusting people, which included at least some submission to their ways and definitely to play nice with their chain of command. But some situations required immediate action and that was precisely what he got.

The men in front of him, who had already crossed the water and reached the riverbank of Markmans Mead while others had gone even farther toward the village, stopped where they were and fell to warriors' crouches, weapons raised and looking around cautiously.

The men behind him who were yet to step into the water, Strider and Halbarad included, also fell to defensive stances.

"Everyone stay exactly where they are," Legolas ordered, not caring now if he sounded presumptuous, impervious, or out of line. He walked beneath the middle of the broken bridge, right at the break. It was not too high to reach, an easy jump for a seasoned wood-elf accustomed to far greater heights. He levered himself up through the gap in the bridge, and studied the damage upon it. He could tell by the jagged patterns that it had been weakened by pickaxe, and then pounded by dull, heavy hammers until pieces fell to the river below. The damage had been inflicted from the Marksmans Mead side.

The villagers had cut themselves off from the rest of the world.

"What do your elf eyes see now?" came the cautious but also mildly mocking question of Garthon, who was on the side of the village, near the tree line.

Legolas chewed at his lip in anxious thought. The bridge had debris upon it, including branches and rocks that may have washed in sometime in the rainy season of the past year. But he could make out markings that they partially covered on the ground. He kicked the debris away, and felt his heart lurch at what he found beneath. He looked up at their leader, Strider, with some alarm before he could steel his expression. The _adan_ read through him and stepped forward urgently.

"Move no closer," Legolas said again, and his mind raced with how to go about this situation.

Strider was on the other side across the river on the banks from which they came, and Legolas wanted him to stay there. But from the distance between them, he would have to call out to Strider to be heard, which meant the whole company would hear them. He could confide his discovery to the twins who were on the same side of the river as he, but a conference amongst three elves would not be well received in this already restless company. There was, in short, no way to speak of his discovery very privately.

"Oh for the love of the gods, wood-elf!" Elrohir coaxed, "out with it."

'Plague,' he said to one of the Imladris twins in Sindarin. Elrohir's and Elladan's eyes widened, and so did Strider's. 'This village was taken by plague.'

"Must we really have to wait for you to find Westron voice to this new horror of yours whatever it is!" Garthon exclaimed, "Strider, please!"

The Chieftain raised his hand for silence and patience and he was granted it by the older Ranger, at least for the time being. The others around them were getting restless too, but also held their tongues.

'What makes you think so?' he asked the elf in the same language, ensuring that his tone was calm and measured.

'This bridge was intentionally destroyed,' Legolas replied. 'The people of this village had meant to cut themselves off completely. Acts of forceful isolation can only come for a couple reasons- keeping something out or keeping something in. I think they were trying to keep the plague from spreading by discouraging new arrivals. The bridge has markings of plague symbolism as warnings. But the villagers seemed to have taken other measures too – keeping their own people from leaving their boundaries and potentially infecting other lands. I believe the corpse we saw was a villager killed in his attempt to escape.'

Strider grimaced, and Legolas waited for the two Imladris elves to walk toward where he stood, on the Marksmans Mead side of the fractured bridge. Elladan lowered himself to his haunches and put a fist up to his mouth at the grim symbols scrawled in fading red paint on the ground – round dots, cross marks and triangles.

Legolas took the chance to look around them as the twins pondered what they meant. Once he knew what to look for, he found another familiar sign. There was a large flat stone near where the young Ranger Chieftain stood.

"Strider," he called out, and still in Sindarin said, 'That beside you is a boundary stone. There should be holes bored on the sides. If I am correct in my guess, they may still smell of vinegar.'

The man frowned and studied the rock, and found what the wood-elf was referring to. He leaned down at one such hole and sniffed. The traces were minute, but a sour smell did emanate from it.

'What is it used for?' he asked.

'Vinegar is believed to prevent contamination,' explained Legolas. He felt unhappy about his theory of a plague now supported by two evidences, but he was relieved because the boundary stone near Strider and Halbarad meant they and those behind them were likely standing on safe ground.

'The boundary stone is a marker of where it is still safe enough for traveling tradesmen to leave their goods,' Legolas said. 'A town plague-ravished still needs its wares. The tradesmen leave such necessary items in exchange for the vinegar-soaked coins left in the holes as payment. There will be other boundary stones about, I think, but now you have two clues instead of one that I speak the truth.'

"How do you want to play this?" Elrohir asked Strider, in Westron now.

"You have better knowledge of the healing arts than me," Strider pointed out.

"Not of anything like this," Elladan replied. "Illness and plague are not phenomena known to affect our kin and thus, hardly in our expertise."

"Well?" Elrohir looked at Legolas expectantly.

"I've seen measures similar to this before," the wood-elf said quietly. He shifted languages again. 'I was much younger then, but they were hard to forget, and the measures worked to varying degrees of success. In the end though - The Great Plague still took much of the human kingdom of Rhovanion, neighboring to us though we elves proved immune. I think you need to forge a system of quarantine, Strider. All of us who had crossed the river and touched the body have been exposed. We cannot leave here until we are sure we are not infected.'

**Thank you for your time. Stay safe and stay at home if you can and 'til the next post!**


End file.
